Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas
by Lasgalendil
Summary: When Angel is taken, a disgraced cop does what no one else will dare to do. She goes after the Joker. For vengeance. For blood. But is it justice? Can it ever be? A struggling city under a Reign of Chaos and Doubt searches for salvation and the answer... set before, during, and after BB/TDK. Ignores TDKR. NO OFC/Joker pairings. Currently under construction.
1. Pieta

I am Gotham. I do not learn from my mistakes.

I am Racheal, weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted because they are no more.

_A pale, perfect boy lies dead on the operating table, chest jumping with the pulses of the defibrillator. His dark eyes are staring, open, terribly and wretchedly empty. Strong arms hold me back as I scream for Angel, they are dragging me to the door. I bite, scratch, kick and taste the bitter salt of my own blood. More hands, more struggle—I can no longer see him, and still they haul me back. Angel can't die! I am screamingsobbing, Angelscan'tdie—!_

I wake, and Angel's eyes are open.

They are smooth and wet, liquid like a doe's. I am mesmerized, caught in the contrast between their gleaming whites and profound darkness.

I want to touch his face, run my fingers over the soft lines of his jaw, trace one, trembling tip down the perfect line of his small nose. But he is so fragile, so delicate…

I fear to break him.

I reach a timid hand over to caress his curly hair. Looking into those eyes I falter. I fear rejection. But I am foolish-he raises a small hand and touches mine, the sharp tips of his tiny nails prickling my skin.

"Hey," I whisper.

I love him. Irrationally, irrevocably, eternally. At twenty-six I find myself staring into the eyes of the child I can never have. At eight, he sees his murdered mom.

I wanted a child. He needed a mother…

We are destined to be. He was born here, in my arms. The dark dreams of his past are erased when he looks into my eyes, his horrible secrets are safe with me, locked forever behind my lips. Already have I forgotten them.

He is pale and beautiful, sorrow and silence, darkness and light… and he is _mine_.

I will hold him, raise him, love him.

What would you call perfection if you could hold it? I call him Angel.

"Hey," I whisper again. He smiles weakly back. But there is pain in those dark eyes, pain and fear. "They can't hurt you anymore." I breathe, "_Angel_…"

I touch his face. He is pale and strangely cold. Twin tears leak from his weepy eyes, tracing down my fingers to drop burning onto my palms. I ache to pull him closer, that enthralling, maternal desire to press him against my skin where nothing can harm him…

My fingers brush something dark and wet. For a moment, I cannot breathe. In all the world there is only the cold whiteness of his pale face, the burning darkness of his deep eyes and hair…there is no color here. I cannot focus, my vision blurring. What is this scarlet on my hand?

It's blood.

Angel's blood. I fling back the cover and it has spread in a seeping, scarlet stain across half the bed, the sheets, the mattress, his skin all coated with a with this same, poisonous shame.

My scarlet-stained fingers are in front of my face, but I cannot move, only stare into those pain-stricken, expectant eyes and realize my Angel is dying.

Agony.

I know now that Hell is choosing between letting an Angel die, or surrendering him to the Devil himself. But this is the price I pay in taking him. _This_ is the price of silencing his secrets, my own private purgatory for all my crimes: to choose.

Yesterday I murdered his bastard of a father. I took him for my own. The hospital will ask questions. If I tell CPS the truth, they will take him away. I would go to prison. He would forever be one of hundreds of molested little boys, forced into psychotherapy, labeled, victimized, forever a foster-child, never a son, eternally pitied…

He is limp in my arms now, wrapped in the blood-soaked bed sheet. His dark eyes stare up into mine, trusting, loving, deceived. _I'm sorry Angel, I'm so sorry_—Gotham Memorial Hospital is three blocks from my apartment, I stagger under the weight of my choice, the boy in my arms less a burden then my guilt. I am too selfish to let him die. He looks into my streaming eyes and believes they are all he needs, he trusts me to make it better, erase the pain like his dark and disturbing dreams…

But I will only make it worse.

Midnight headlights cut across my blurring vision, strangely iridescent, splitting into a thousand shafts in the diamonds of my tears. The night is weeping too, her freezing guilt falling with a sudden flash of silent thunder. My long, flickering shadow a demon, pulling me, weighting me, haunting me down…

I stumble, spill my burden onto the star-strewn, shimmering street. I bear him up again, my child, my Angel, my savior, dying in my arms as cold and still, terrible and beautiful as a Pieta-Christ, wet and wretched against my heart.

_Help me! God somebody help me help Angel I am shouting, shouting as the boy in my arms trembles and shakes, his doe-eyes rolled back, dull instead of gleaming they take him from me and lay him on a stretcher, flopping horribly and bucking from the shock his blood is gone his blood is gone and running in scarlet streams like the freezing, dripping rain still falling from the sky and my burning, blurring eyes-_

I wake. Angel's eyes are open, staring into mine.

Oxygen tubes poke harshly into his tiny nose, his arms a tangle of IV tubing and the countless units of borrowed blood. He is lying on his stomach, his frightened face turned to me over the pillows.

His liquid eyes begin to focus. He sees me.

And smiles.

_I am forgiven._

"Angel," I whisper, touching his face, running my finger down the straight line of his nose, pressing the tip. He mimics me weakly, laying a trembling palm against my cheek. Tears trickle and run onto his tiny nails. I weep. My face is inches from his, laid on his bedside, staring, loving, adoring. I memorize every detail, the shape of his cherub's mouth, his perfect nose, those wide, doe-like eyes, the tears clinging to their impossible lashes…

_Angel_.

There are footsteps behind me, uniforms reflected in the unending pools of his fathomless eyes. They are here.

"Ma'am? We need to talk."

Let them try to take him from me. They will not find it easy. My lips are on his perfect face, my hands buried in his sweet-smelling hair, his breath is soft and warm, panting gently against my throat. He screams as I am forced from his embrace, the sharp tips of his tiny nails ripping ribbons of flesh from my outstretched, flailing fingers I am dragged I am screaming _AngelAngelAngel—!_

My hands are clenched around the doorframe, my body suspended and tossed by an angry mob of reaching arms and flashing badges, Angel's mouth is open and he coughs in a silent, wordless scream. Our eyes meet and I tell him they will have to spill me before I divulge his secret, that they will take me from him and tell him that _I_ have done those horrible things to him, that he can never, ever see me again because his blood was on my sheets and I'm a horrible fucked up child molester who deserves to die in prison anyways and the lies, lies, lies I will take and bear in your name because I love you, Angel—

Their force is unrelenting. My arms are weakening. Our gazes hold us locked. His pale lips part.

_I'll come back for you, Angel! Whatever it takes I promise I'll come back—!_

I am taken.

Call me Gotham. I do not learn from my mistakes.

I am Racheal.

You cannot comfort me.


	2. Eris Unleashed

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas****: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

PANDEMONIUM TASKFORCE briefing: The following video was discovered on Youtube by the Gotham City FBI cybercrimes division on August 23rd, 15:00 EST. It was subsequently archived under the file of John Doe #387, alias The Joker. Since its initial posting by Arewehavingfunyet not 72 hours prior to this discovery, it had already received over 2,000,000 hits. That number would triple over the next three days until its removal.

This video contains both graphic and disturbing images. The team investigating the video was referred to psychological services, and civilian viewers exposed to its content are encouraged to seek professional counseling immediately. A hotline has been established through the Gotham City Department of Family and Childhood Development Services. Coming so soon after the fall of the Wayne Legacy Foundation, no portion of this video is deemed appropriate for use by or to be released to the mainstream media.

Additional note: The victim in question has now been positively identified by voice and facial recognition software as GCPD Homicide Detective Jimmy Connolly, age 22. Reported missing in action on August 19th, 2030, Detective Connolly is currently presumed dead until convincing evidence can be provided to the contrary.

* * *

Darkness, footsteps. The camera pans up to a faded, chipped white door. The bullet-proof security glass is tainted from the inside with dark-red, congealed splatters. A hand reaches for the door, and the camera shifts, juggling awkwardly. A brief view of the dripping ceiling, the dirty floor, then the angle balances. In the corner of the room furthest from the door, an emergency transport gurney stands lonely against the wall. Hidden under plaster-coated blankets and sheets, a small shape lies still. Gender, age, and race are indistinguishable. The camera moves drunkenly forward.

"This is our, uh, newest _patient_." A sudden glimpse of a grotesquely painted face, then a surgical mask is placed over the scarred features, hiding them from view. Gloved hands enter the jerking frame, shaking the bundle roughly. "Wake up wake up c'mon c'mon, smile for the birdie…the Battie…" The camera shifts again, winking in and out of focus on the patient's face.

The young man's eyes flutter open. He groans, coughing.

"Hey. Hey. Hey I'm talking to _you_!" The gloved fingers lift pallid eyelids, shining a flashlight into the quickly constricting pupils. "Hey!" The hands bat the boy's face, making a squelching sound as they leave the flesh. Finally he raises a bruised hand in protest, chirping groggily and stirring. A prolonged, raucous giggle erupts from the medic.

"Would you look at that? You're finally _a-wa-kuh_."

"Who are you?" The patient whispers weakly.

"I'm a, uh, doctor." The surgical mask twists and bulges, cruel, yellowish eyes wrinkling over its upper edges along the bridge of the nose. "You can call me uh, Doctor J... But the real question here is: _who_ are _you_?" The voice behind the mask is muffled but excited. "Ya see, I really need to uh, _know_. It might help with my uh, my treatment."

"Jimmy-" the boy's voice trails off, his eyes focusing blearily into the camera.

"What is your, uh, _full _name?" The purple smocked doctor asks. "Ya might to want to write this down, Commissioner." He turns back to the camera, an odd, moist noise, like chewing opened mouthed coming from behind a blue surgical mask. "Just in case."

"Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly-"

"Well," One gloved hand reaches up, patting the boy's clammy face. "Jimmy-Jimmy Connolly, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two." The words slip out between small, hiccoughing coughs.

"And where do you work, Jimmy? Or are you…uh, unemployed?"

"Police-" Here the coughing grows louder, and the rest of the sentence is drowned out. The boy's chest rises higher, shuddering then laying still again. His face is clenched in pain, both hands pressed over his side.

"A police officer?" That cheery voice rings, insistent. "A _Gotham City_ police officer?"

The boy nods, his face still twisted in pain.

An odd bulge appears under the surgical mask, moving swiftly sideways. "_Hmmm_…a police officer. That uh, that changes things." There is a brief pause, and a packet of surgical instruments is opened and dumped on the bed. A tingling of ringing steel, and a lancet and scapel tinker as they topple to the floor.

"Do you remember what happened?"

The boy shakes his head, the movement barely perceptible.

"Well," that gumming noise smacked from behind the mask again. "I'm afraid there's been a terrible, uh, _accident_, Jimmy. Dr. J is going to have to do a uh, quick ex-a-mi-na-_shun_."

'Yeah." The boy mutters.

The dusty sheets are pulled back slowly. The boy is naked from the waist up.

"Lets uh, focus, on that right there…" the gloved hand enters the frame again, gesturing towards a bright, jagged lesion running the length of the boy's abdomen. "It looks…infected." The doctor's face re-enters the frame, yellow eyes sparkling with malice.

"Tell me when it hurts."

The camera speakers erupt into white noise, unable to properly record the prolonged scream. The volume cuts in and out, then the angle spins away, out of control, knocked aside by the boy's thrashing. Over the grating sound of the locked wheels jerking against the concrete, and the steel rails shaking and scraping into the plaster walls, the doctor's menacing voice can barely be heard. "Oh, and there too? And here? My, my my…and does it uh, hurt _worse_ when I press, oh, apparently, _yes_…"

The interview continues for exactly five minutes and forty-three seconds. The examination—and that scream—terminate only with a coughing retch and a heavy splatter.

The doctor bends, covering the frame. He clicks his tongue, removing the dropped lancet and scalpel from the puddle of vomit. "Well, now." He says. "Can't have that, can we?" He wipes them on the sheets, then wads up a fistful of the dirty sheets to clean the sheen of sick off his sweating patient. The boy is whimpering.

"Lets uh, get you something for the…_pain_." A syringe is plunged into the flesh of the quivering forearm. "It might take a few minutes for it to, uh, take effect-tuh."

He leans over the patient, forcing a dark, bleary eye open and again shining the light. It constructs to a tiny pinprick, then slowly, ever so slowly it dilates, the iris vanishing until it is nothing more than a sliver of amber ringing the pupil."There we go…"

'Its getting…" the boy's voice trails off as his eyes are allowed to close. "worse…"

The purple gloved hands come back into view, toying with the surgical instruments, holding them up to the light.

"I'm not going to uh, lie to you Johnnie-"

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy. I'm not going to lie to you. It looks pretty uh, pretty _serious _for you right now."

The dilated eyes open again, blank and staring.

"We might have to uh, amputate."

"What?" The boy blinks lazily in confusion, pursing his dried lips.

"Am-pu-tay-tuh. Cut off. Remove. Dismember, ya know?"

"Amputate…what…"

"Hmmm." The doctor muses, drumming fingers noisily on the steel bedrails. "That's a very good question. Let's see, uh, pretty much everything from uh, here," he gestures to the gaping wound standing bright against the pallid flesh of the boy's torso. "uh, down."

The boy blinks again, eyes widening, staring, unable to focus in the bright light. He searches the doctor's face, then his own body, coughing to sit up and stare at the wound. He stops, mesmerized, at the sight of the exposed tissue glistening in the light. He coughs again, lets out a cry of pain, then falls back onto the stretcher, panting.

His breath comes in short, small gasps. His blank eyes open again under contorted brows, tearing in pain. He looks at the cotton ball taped on his arm. "I need more, more morphine-"

"Morphine?" The masked doctor asks in mock surprise, waggling a finger,"You uh, you wanted _morphine_? Oh, tsk, tsk. I asked you if you wanted something uh, _for the pain_, Johnnie-boy. You never said you wanted a _pain killer_."

He looks up, hair slicked with sweat, lips dry and parched, eyes unable to focus. His hands are trembling over the wound. "What did you give me…"

That odd, smacking noise scarcely conceals a gleeful giggle. "Methylamphetamine. Now isn't that fun to _say_? C'mon, say it: Meth_yl_amphetamine. I love how the _llll_ sound just _rolllls_ off the tongue-"

"You gave me meth…."The boy grimaces as he sits up again, trembling with the effort to raise himself.

"Aw, c'mon. Meth isn't fun. Meth is _boring,_ and I don't like being bored, Johnnie-boy. Say _meth_amphetamine, we're getting somewhere. But use the real name: meth_yl_amphetamine-now that's uh, that's _exotic!_ Why anyone would ever want to short-ten it…." The voice grows higher and higher, breaking off into a fit of giggling. The doctor leans over the cot, cold eyes sparkling over his terrible Cheshire grin. "Now say it, Johnnie-boy. Say meth_yl_amphe-tah-me-_nuh_. Let's hear you say it-"

"You're not a doctor," he whispers, his wide, doe-eyes staring in horror. "You're _insane_."

Only silence greets him.

"I resent that." Each syllable is punctuated with a gumming smack of the lips. The doctor continues to stare out of black, burning sockets. Suddenly a gloved hand rips the mask down, revealing again the grotesquely painted face, its shadowed wrinkles, puffy scars, and lopsided, sinister grin painted clumsily like a cut-throat ear to ear. "_Surprise_!"

The boy yelps, writhing in horror as the Joker cackles wildly, dancing, doubling over in a flash of violent purple and green.

"_Oh, ho, ohohoh Johnnie-boy!_" The Joker hoots in glee. "Ya should've seen your _face_-"

He straightens, his terrible visage looming into view. He bends over the gurney, leering-

-a sudden flash of movement, a rustle of the sheets, a sharp cry-

-the camera falls, clattering wildly as the dirty room spins again and again. "Oh damn oh fuck oh shit shitshit_shit!"_ The camera slowly stops spinning on its side, and the Joker has fallen, gloved hands clasped to his face. He rises slowly, a demon from the ashes, his yellow eyes burning.

Dark red blood pours from his cheek around the buried handle of the scalpel.

"Ya think that was uh, ya think was _clever_?" He whispers, walking closer. 'Given the uh, the _circumstances_?" One gloved hand yanks on the handle, ripping a chunk of flesh from the painted death mask. The steel lancet is now in the boy's hand, their arms meeting in a fury of blows. They struggle wildly, but only briefly. Within seconds, the lancet topples from the boy's whitening fingers as a gloved palm engulfs his wrist.

The Joker grabs the boy by the hair, twisting his face up toward his own. One gloved hand holds the scarlet scalpel. "And as if my face wasn't ugly enough al-_ready_, you had to go and uh, cut it up. Don't ya think this'll leave a _scar?_ And now wouldn't that be such a _sha_-muh, scarring up such a uh, _pretty_ face-"

"Oh God-" The boy whispers as the cold metal of the scalpel caresses the smooth skin of his cheek. The Joker's blood drips down onto his bare chest, running in rivers, staining the white sheets a dark, deadly crimson.

"Yes, Johnnie-boy," The clown whispers, bringing their faces together so gently it could have been for a kiss. "I am uh, _god-duh_ . I have the power to kill you or let you uh, _live_. That makes me uh, pretty, pretty _di-vine_, don't ya think?"

"You're…not…god." The boy pants, every syllable an agony.

A groping, gloved hand covers the camera lens, hoisting it up in the air, the fingers slip away and the boy's pallid face, crushed in the iron grip of one of those powerful hands, fills the entirety of the screen. The scalpel presses firmly into his cheek, one large, perfect bead of blood rolling down from blade-tip to end.

He blanches.

The Joker licks and smacks his lips in anticipation, smearing red greasepaint and bitter blood across his misshapen cheeks. "You're uh, you're right, Johnnie-boy…." He croons lowly, one hand lovingly slicking a tangle of dark curls from the boy's dazed eyes. "Ya see…_I'm the devil."_

The scalpel plunges and disappears.

A fountain of blood erupts. The lens is splattered, the camera is tossed and lands with a violent, jarring stop. The gurney shakes and strains, the stainless steel screaming in protest, the quaking, locked wheels crushing and crashing into the tile. The boy thrashes mechanically in the bed, keening and seizing, the sound muffled and distorted by his raw and disfigured mouth.

The boy's blood-slick fingers are groping, scrabbling, tearing at the backs of those merciless purple gloves clamped around his upturned face. Blood overflows from his widened, gaping mouth, between his dull gums and bright teeth, pooling and pouring over the tops of the Joker's unrelenting hands, fingers buried through the remains of the tattered cheeks. Slowly, ever so slowly with that same, seductive gesture and burning look, the Joker tilts back his victim's head as though for a tender kiss…The squelching, sputtering coughs fade. The Joker's deep, ragged breaths and low, eerie hum are the only sounds.

It takes one minute, forty-seven slow seconds for the boy to drown.

The neck goes limp, the weight of the body dangling awkwardly from the Joker's hands. He releases the ruined face with flourish, and the limp form topples sideways from the cart, hanging from the blood soaked sheets like a shriveled fly in a spider's web.

The Joker heaves a sigh of release, stretching and smearing blood with paint on the back of his gloved hand and sleeve. Theatrically, he removes the long rubber gloves from his arms, slicking back green-streaked, sweaty hair from his forehead.

"Now, _hmmm_, where does this leave _us_…" The Joker walks towards the camera, growing larger and larger until his framed face and reaching hands fill the view. "I prefer to think of it as an, uh, educational ex-pe-ri-_ence_.. Ya see, folks, Johnnie here died because Johnnie-here was whatcha call a uh ,a _doubter_. Johnnie-here didn't uh, belie-_vuh."_

The camera rotates as the Joker speaks, dropping its gaze lower. He pauses, nudging the body with an irreverent foot. The form slips downwards several inches through the sheets, swaying slowly as he continues.

"Now, listen up _kiddos_, there's people not gonna wantcha to watch this video. But ya need to, because ya need to _understand._ Ya see, I don't want heroic little Johnnie-here to have uh, died in vain. People want to protect ya but ya need to _know…_they can't.

And they don't want ya to know the uh, _truth_. And the truth folks, is I might be the _devil_, but here I get to play uh, _god_. So ya better believe, ya'd better have uh, _fai-thuh_. Because I am om-ni-po-ten-_tuh_. So when I say something will happen its gonna _happen._ Don't believe your parents, don't believe the police, don't trust the police. They might put up a good uh, _figh-tuh_…but in the end they're whatcha call uh, powerless…"

He hoists up the limp body by its lank, sweat-soaked hair, the ruined jaw hanging slack, blood running smooth and thick from the gaping mouth. Slowly, sensuously, he presses the slimed face into the wall, smearing the sanguine-soaked flesh into the shape of a sinister, dripping smile. He steps back, tilting his head hawk-like to admire his handiwork, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

The defiled body falls with a lifeless, final thump.

The Joker's Cheshire grin fills the entire screen: his bared yellowed teeth, the raised, wrinkled flaps of skin moist and glistening, the jagged, bleeding scalpel wound pulsating rhythmically. "So…" The Joker smacks his slimy lips. "Who ya gonna trust? Me?"

"…or _them?"_

The camera veers sickeningly downwards to a spreading pool of viscous blood.

Detective Jimmy Connolly lays maimed and motionless on the floor, his dark, dilated eyes as hollow and haunting as any promise of protection.


	3. Lacrimosa

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 23rd**

**21:47 EST**

…I've been here before.

In this same damn room, with this same damn gun. Always drinking, always alone. But tonight will be different.

Tonight, it's my turn.

Art Jamison used to carry this gun. He was my first captain, back in the dark days. Before Fear Night, before Batman, when the Roman's stranglehold on organized crime made Al Capone's years of terror in Chicago seem like a child's playground… Back when I used to work with Gordon. Art was killed. Gordon lived. I got his Beretta. Gordon got his position.

Art had given me what no one else would: a chance. And Gordon? _Gordon_ gave me shit.

No, Gordon gave me _hell_.

There's not a councilman or a judge in this fucking city with a record better than mine. The dirty politicians bought by the mob, corrupting justice for their own sick pleasure surround us. Gotham's heart is rotting. Even now after the Dent Statute there's not a councilman or hardly a cop even in WATCHDOG dragging around less shit than me. Yet I was the one sacrificed. The fucking scapegoat—the _purge._

But I only did what any other cop would have done. Hell, what anyone would have done. I can still remember it so vividly I wonder that it has been thirteen years, that Barbara Gordon can't stand to speak to me, that her husband is no longer neither my partner nor my friend, that he climbed the political ladder to become Commissioner, and yet I am still sitting alone in this damn apartment, thirteen years after that godawful night. I wonder whether Heaven is open to me after all I've done, yet how even with this doubt that Hell can seem better than another moment of this miserable life…

Yet mostly I wonder that Angel never wrote. Not once. Not even to thank me…

And now he never will.

* * *

_CPS should have handled it._

_Homicide. Gordon and I were closest when they called it in. She's 23 or 24, lying sprawled on the linoleum, only a thin trickle of blood across the top of her head, running like a red scar between her open, bloodshot eyes. A broken piece of the acrylic counter top lies next to her. A spatula rests across from her open, outstretched hand—she must've been holding it when she fell. We snap some pictures, then sit in the living room and wait._

_Evidence will be here soon. And an ambulance with a body bag. I find the thought to be strangely perverse._

_"You doing okay?" Gordon asks me, kindness in his eyes._

_"Yeah, fine." Her face is visible, and she continues her restless, eternal vigil._

_"Paltron," He begins again, "It's alright if you don't want to do this-"_

_"I said I'm fine." I was in Pakistan for 18 months, fresh out of high school. I'd seen dead bodies before. Plenty of them. Gordon's aware of my military record, but even then he doesn't understand. So I take his pity for what it is, heartfelt, but misplaced._

_CSI shows up. They snap more pictures, sweep surfaces. The ambulance arrives nearly an hour later. The roads are goddamned awful, the paramedics apologize. Most of the side streets are closed. Only the main thoroughfares are still being plowed. Did you know they shut down the interstate…_

_I don't hear them. My eyes are the only things working, and they are drawn again and again to that dead girl. She's maybe four years younger than me…Her dull green eyes are open, staring across the filthy room to the pantry. They lift her body, still lukewarm to the touch, and her head dangles obscenely from her wobbly, rubber neck._

_They close her eyes, but they spring back open. She continues to stare at the pantry, as though even in death she is drawn to it. The lids are lowered once again, with a gentle squelching click they shut. Her head lolls as they slide her into the black body bag. They zip her from the feet up, and her head bobs again. I taste bile. Her dead eyes have opened yet again._

…_She stares at me._ _This sudden feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves. That bitch could've easily been you, I tell myself. What the hell. She probably just slipped. She must've fell. _

_Yeah fucking right. Acrylic doesn't snap under an underweight, scrawny little bitch like that. Someone had to throw her, slam her, slap her into the counter top. Which blow was nearly enough to knock her head from her shoulders only forensics will tell._

_I stare out the kitchen window, and a church bell rings. But this is no Silent Night, there is no Heavenly Peace in Gotham. GCPD and Social Services are always busiest around the holidays, the supposed time of family and peace. And that should tell you something right there. Most families are anything but peace. Most victims are hurt by people they know. People they trust. People, they think, who love them._

_There are too many hurt, trusting, naïve people in Gotham. Too many, I turn back to tell the dead girl as the black bag engulfs her satin and lace clad chest. She must have been one of them. Her eyes are still staring into mine, demanding. The zipper closes, and their glazed glare is finally lost._

_She's dead, gone. My warning comes too late. Sooner or later, Gotham's women get roughed, raped, or killed. There's nothing I can do but wait for my turn._

_Then we find him._

_She had been looking at the pantry, and following her stare with a nervous glance I can't fail to notice the puddle of urine forming dusty and dark against the dirty floor. Guns at the ready, we open the slatted door._

_A chirp. A child. Eight, maybe nine. Small, fragile, delicate._

_The guns are lowered. Through the black plastic of the body bag, I feel her dead eyes boring through me._

_CPS should have handled it. But CPS was busy. It was late, it was cold, it was Friday, it was goddamn Christmas-time and every fucking child abuser had been going to town. It had poured sleet and hail and rain and snow until even the salt trucks got off the road._

_He doesn' t say a word. When Gordon reaches for him he flinches and shuts his dark eyes tight, leaking hot, weak tears. Without thinking I put Art's beretta down on the broken counter. I walk slowly forward, hazy and stumbling in a trance. My hands find him of their own accord, and he shudders at their touch and surrenders to my embrace._

_I'm a woman. Like his goddamned murdered mom. And he trusted me for it. He'd never trust a man again._

_He came back to base with us. With me._

_He's wrapped in my jacket, one hand and his face pressed against my breasts. He lays sleeping in my arms, his elfin, angel's face laid light and warm against me. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can still feel his breath and body against mine._

_He was safe. This kid had just watched his mother die, but he slept in my arms. I was an angel, a goddess, a guardian…_

* * *

But that was thirteen years ago. And if only that could have been the end. My last sight of Angel. But no. I wept when I watched him die, still feeling him sleeping in my arms, head on my breasts, his warm breath on my skin, knowing it would have been kinder, it would have been more forgivable, had I smothered him there in his sleep.

Art's gun. Beautiful beretta 92F semiautomatic. She is bitter on my tongue, her powder acrid. I feel her cold steel against the roof of my mouth. As an officer I've seen this death a thousand times. It's not poetic, not romantic, neither painless nor pretty. But there are no accidents, no mistakes…no second chances.

The bullet will rip into my brain stem. I will be dead before the back of my skull can mushroom onto the wall behind me.

A mechanical click as I cock the gun. I close my eyes, Angel's face before mine. My hand doesn't tremble as I pull the trigger.

* * *

**August 23rd**

**21:57 EST**

My courage didn't fail me. But that old beretta did. She had sent twenty-seven to their final rests…but she couldn't send me to mine. The 9mm parabellum lies cold in my palm. I roll it between my fingers, staring. I had cleaned the gun. The round was chambered…

There has to be an explanation. I pick up my phone and dial. My eyes never leave this strange, cylindrical enigma.

"Lawless."

"Hey, Paltron," his voice is shaky.

"Had a question."

"Yeah, shoot." I try to laugh, but can't.

"The old Beretta's-the 92F's. You ever heard of one misfire?"

"Christ, Paltron. They stopped using those years ago…what's this about?"

"I just had one not work for me."

Silence. Lawless is shrewd. Even in his pain he guesses more than I would have him know.

"You okay?"

"You never had a problem with one?"

"No." He sighs, his voice catching. "They're good guns. We just switched to the Westons in the '90's for bigger caliber bullets. You sure you chambered it right?"

I am silent, remembering. The bullet was in. I shut the chamber, twisting it tight. It clicked.

"Positive."

"She's old though. Take her in and get her cleaned."

"Yeah, thanks."

There is an awkward pause.

"You sure you're fine?"

"Yeah." I breathe, unbelieving. "And you?"

His voice breaks. "He was, he was my partner, you know? And um, Amy always makes spaghetti on Fridays you know, and its, its his favorite meal. I couldn't-I tried…I had, I had to tell her that Jimmy…that, that he was _dead_." The last word is a sob.

I never thought I would hear Aaron Lawless cry. I find my own eyes are hot with tears as I roll the forgiven bullet in my palm. Two impossible things have happened tonight. Two constants, utterly changed: Art's Beretta failed me, and Lawless cried. There must be a purpose, a reason, a deeper, hidden meaning…

And it lies here, heavy in my hand.

My fingers curl around the bullet in a trembling fist. I press them to my lips. Angels should never die. Good, grown men should never have to weep. Not even in Gotham.

"Don't worry." I whisper, both to Lawless and Angel. "We'll get the Bastard."

The line goes dead.

* * *

**August 23rd**

**22:53 EST**

I cough and check my watch. It's nearly eleven…In little more than an hour, Angel will have been dead for three days. I've only known it for seven hours, but already I've wasted so much time-

Fuck. Angel _dead_…For thirteen years I've dreamed of finding him, of holding him again, and to have finally found him, finally touched him, to have come so fucking _far_-

I cough again. Over the last three days, it's gotten progressively worse. Upper respiratory infections are one of the more common side effects of inhaling large amounts of plaster dust, asbestos, paint ships and powdered glass. But even dying slowly I'm still lucky. They've pulled more than four thousand bodies out of the Legacy so far, and they'll still be sifting through the rubble for weeks to come.

This time I can't make the coughing stop. My lungs begin to burn. the lack of oxygen driving me to my knees. My vision begins to tunnel, slowly blackening. Angel's cherubic face flits across my eyelids, he stands in front of me, holding out his tiny hand, beckoning me to peace and rest. I want nothing more than to feel that warm hand in mine, to lay down and surrender to its promise…

I need antibiotics. I need to slow down. I need to rest.

But that Bastard isn't resting. He's still out there. And only when I've sent him to his last and final rest-only when he dies so terrified that Angel's murder looks like child's play-only then will I surrender to something as weak and as human as pain or sleep.

_Get up. Be strong_. I grit my teeth and stand.

I spit to the side, releasing my frustration like venom on the cracked, splattered pavement. For thirteen years I've found Angel's life my sole reason to live…in death, he has given me another calling: to kill.

I have to find the Joker.

So here I am, in the Narrows, after dark, alone. Even in the daylight, a woman walking alone here is asking for trouble.

But I'm not just asking. I am lusting, burning, _aching_ for someone to cross me. With the Legacy bombing and the declaration of martial law, no one but national guardsmen and Gotham's worst will be patrolling the streets tonight. The simple thugs, the addicts…they're all holed up, terrified, petty playthings for the Joker like the rest of us. No, tonight, under Gotham's Military Order and the Joker's Reign of Chaos, only his tools will be brave enough—or foolish enough—to be out on the streets.

The night is lusty and young, her demons howl as the wind whips my hair and sweatshirt hood back, sending chills down my spine. Perhaps she knows why I am here…and she is as hungry as I am for blood.

"Hey, baby." A low voice drones, its master stepping out of the shadows. I continue walking, increasing my pace-like a good little girl. _I'm alone and helpless_, I think, _come and get me, you bastard_. He saunters around the light pole, eying me slowly up from my feet to my face. He's well muscled and brutish looking, and he's got three friends with him, equally as big, as droll…and as dead.

"You're out awful late, there, baby." He says. "Do you need a _ride_?" His friends snicker.

"Piss off." I work hard to put a quaver in my voice.

"Oh, ho, not a very friendly little thing, are you? What are you doing out on a night like this? Isn't it about time for you to be home…in bed?" His friends snicker again, flanking me.

"Please don't hurt me." They drink it in, predators stalking their prey, the powerful feeding on the powerless. They worship anarchy, adore cruelty. Subhuman animals drinking the life blood of their weaker cousins with conscience, cousins rendered helpless, too ruled by that weakness and naivety to cull the herd. It's no wonder they work for the Joker. He's their _god_.

My hands are still tucked in the front pocket of the sweatshirt, the extra bulge concealing the tasers gripped tightly in my palms. This was going to be easy. This was going to be _fun._

They exchange glances, and with sinister grins they close on me. Only one is intelligent enough to reach for a weapon. He brings his knife up and kisses it suggestively, staring into my eyes. There he suddenly freezes, like an animal, with some innate sense that something was terribly and horribly wrong…

* * *

**August 23rd**

**23:07 EST**

Ugly and his cronies are all bound with slip ties. I prefer slip ties to duct tape-they're cheaper, for one, and a hell of a lot less annoying. The only downside is you can't use them as a form of torture as well as a binder.

But I brought better toys for that.

"Wake up, motherfucker." I slap Ugly across the face, hard. Bound to my wrist and across my knuckles is a leather strap, decorated with two bronze, serpentine fangs that extend down the back of my hand past my curled fingers. Serrated on the front, cold, hard and smooth on the back. Change the angle, change the pain… It's a relic from my wilder days, before the GCPD re-hired me and I had to clean up my act.

"Where's the Joker?"

He spits teeth and blood, gazing at me defiantly. He knows can't lose face in front of his friends. But he will.

"Where's the Joker?"

I strike him again, spinning into the blow so my entire weight comes crashing down across his mandible. I hear a rewarding crack as the jaw breaks. The sound is musical.

"_Bitch!"_ He shouts, the muscles in his face straining to hold the injury still.

"Where's the Joker?" This time the blow falls on the broken bone and he screams in pain.

"Go fuck yourse—" A sickening crunch and the other side of his jaw is shattered. He screams again, and this time there are molars in the blood. Molars and chunks of pinkish flesh.

His friends are all awake now…and giving me their undivided attention.

I back away from Ugly, staring into each of their eyes in silence. For a while the only sound is Ugly's heavy, labored breathing.

"I'll make this easier for all of us. I. Want. The. Joker." I state evenly. "Anyone who can give me information….dies _quickly_. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, lady!"

"_Nobody knows where the Joker is_!" Someone blurts. It's the goon who had the knife. His eyes are wide, his mouth hanging in disbelief. He has more instinct than his friends. He's the one. He'll think to pass on information about his rivals, his higher ups…anything. I can tell from their eyes that he is the only one intelligent enough to realize I am deadly, deadly serious. "He's a criminal mastermind, for god's sake! You think he tells fuckin' anybody where he is?"

I say nothing. I don't have to. I simply raise my hand and shave slivers off the plumbing as the leather tightens around my wrist. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, a hacksaw on a violin string…They all cringe. They're an imaginative bunch. They all wonder what these fanged, sharp talons could do to flesh…but no one wants to know.

"One more time." I hiss. "Where is the Joker?"

"Lady, we don't know anything about the damn Joker! We're just, just ordinary criminals, okay?"

"You know nothing. Nothing at all?" I ask, flicking my hand impatiently. The smart one shuts his eyes.

"No, I don't know nuthin' about the fucking Joker, okay? What do you take us for, a bunch of sickos? The Joker's fucked up, fucked up crazy, okay? We don't know nothing about him."

"Yeah. Nothing! We're not mob or anything. We're just normal guys, lady. Jesus, you've got the wrong guys-"

It's the wrong answer. Smart-boy knows it, too.

I remember Angel's gagging screams, watching the light in his horrified eyes slowly dying, the feeble sound of his slick, scrabbling fingers slapping on the Joker's wrists as he drowned in his own blood…There is a plunging noise as I punch deep into their chests, pulling my hand back cleanly, leaving nothing more than two small, deep holes in their right breasts, even with their hearts. Air rushes into the body cavity, the right lung collapses instantly, the pleural layers sticking together, sealing off the bronchial tubes completely. With every breath, more air will enter that pleural space, and the left lung will slowly crumple.

My Angel was drowned… I let them suffocate.

* * *

**August 23rd**

**23: 56 EST**

I was right. Smart-boy had a friend upriver, Stalton, who dealt arms. He didn't know for certain if he was involved in the Legacy attack…but he might be able to tell me the name of the vendor who was. It was a half-truth. He did know _someone_, but judging from his nervousness, this Stalton was a small-time dealer and probably wouldn't have considered himself 'a friend.' But it was information. And this Stalton could give me more…

He died messily, but well. True to my word, I slit his throat. His companions were still gasping like fish long after his weakened heart had stopped. One was still making small, arrhythmic croaking noises when I left the place.

Ugly I left to the rats.

I go back to the apartment. This will be my last night here. I can't go after Stalton yet—I'll have to have cash just to get in. It never ceases to amaze me what sort of doors will open with the mention of a mutual friend like Benjamin Franklin. I'll have to empty my bank accounts. Once Ugly and his friends are found, all my assets will be frozen.

So I have to wait until 9 AM, when the banks open. I couldn't do anything more until I visited a joint like Stalton's, anyways. All I have now is Art's old Beretta 92. I need more firepower. And I don't want standard issue GCPD toys. I want SWAT material. I want military hardware. The AK 47 might be outdated, but she's still a good gun. What's better, she's more available. Buying current military is so damn expensive and dangerous…you get caught with an AK 47, you're going to jail for a really, really long time. Toting current military makes you a terrorist…and it won't be jail where you spend the rest of your very short, miserable life. Former President Obama may have closed down Guantanamo Bay back when I was in high school, but that just means no one knows where it is now. Tried and true institutions like torture don't disappear with a new millennium. They just get better.

I shower, the hot water scalding my skin. But I can bear the pain with pleasure. It will make me stronger—I can't be soft. I can't be weak. Pain must become my friend. I will know her intimately before this is over.

I climb into bed, curling up, willing a deep, dreamless sleep to come. I breathe in and out, rhythmically and regularly, forcing my clenched muscles to relax. Even my body doesn't like to be patient.

But it needs sleep. It needs rest. If I am going after the Joker, it will have to learn to wait.

_I'm sorry Angel. I have to sleep. This will take so long…there has to be waiting. Hiding. I have to be strong. I have to be prepared…I have to be ready_.

I shut my eyes, and I feel his breath.


	4. Unis

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 24th**

**06:00 EST**

**1900 E. Philedelphia Dr., Apartment 3337**

_I wake. Angel's eyes are open._

_He lays next to me, small and elfin, no longer a boy but boyish._

_Plaster dust and powdered glass fragments coat his skin, his hair, his uniform…It has been thirteen years, but his eyes are the same, my Angel's eyes, loving and liquid, dark with gleaming whites. They smile, skin wrinkling up around their corners, their color evanescing into his impossible lashes._

_I want to touch his face, run my fingers over the softness of his jaw, trace one, trembling tip down the perfect line of his small nose once more. I reach out a hesitant hand. He is so fragile, so delicate-_

_The tip of his nose is warm beneath my outstretched finger. His lips part._

_A single bead of blood falls like a tear from his cheek._

_His face explodes into a mask of scarlet that stains in a spreading sea on the sheets the mattress his skin he is choking drowning I am screaming keening wrapping him in the sheets to staunch the stain as his nails rip flesh from my hands arms pull me away I am screaming AngelAngelAngel—!_

I wake. Alone. I am sweating and I retch. I lay my head back down on the bed, my skin clammy and cold. My fingers reach towards the empty side of the mattress, encountering nothing but still, stagnant air. It has been thirteen years since I woke to the sight of Angel's eyes.

I never will again.

* * *

**August 24th**

**09:00 EST**

**Gotham City Bank and Trust**

Sounds are muted, colors dull. Blank, animalistic stares are on the faces of the faceless crowd pushing against me. They are colorless, lifeless, devoid of hope and emotion. I'm either in Hell or Gotham City.

My pulse surges lazily in my neck: _Gotham_.

I see myself from above this mess, stepping purposefully through the curtains of monotony sheering in human waves around me. Perhaps last night's blood is visible in vibrant Technicolor on my hands. Perhaps they know a killer stalks among them.

Perhaps they are too accustomed to care.

I enter the bank. Behind me, in front of me, reflected in the many, mirrored facets of the building's face, smoke and dust rise in a terrible, ominous cloud.

Five days, and the Legacy is still smoldering. There is a scar of sunlight in the city's skyline.

The tellers are gloomy. Accounts are closing, businesses evaporating, investments have stalled. My face is one of hundreds in the long line of fleeing customers that will drive them under. Security is jumpy. Understandably so. Two years ago this September, the that bastard drove a school bus through the wall I am standing against now. A dead body, masked as a clown, would lie not ten feet in front of me. High above us, charred discoloration wreathes the ceiling in sinister, smoky spirals.

I present my ID, and close my account. I walk calmly back across the atrium, under that ruined ceiling, with $33, 577.09. _Cash._

There is a small wishing well for change. A gold placard drolly reads 'Proceeds benefit Stop the Violence'. I fish through the envelope for the nine pennies. They will fall like drops of blood from my hand, sending smooth, clean ripples through the waters of this unfeeling irony.

But my groping fingers are disappointed.

$33,577.10. Too depressed, too disillusioned to count nine pennies she handed me a perfect dime. In front of the fountain I pause to reflect with her a philosophical question: what is one penny worth in the light of thousands?

But each is different, each is unique. They were minted in different places, by different hands, with different seals under different Presidents. Some are copper, others zinc, some are worn yet others shine a shimmering pink in the sun. There are no two alike. What is the worth of thousands in the light of one?

The dime sinks beneath the surface, swaying slowly in its descent into darkness.

Collateral.


	5. Tradere

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 24th**

**15:00 EST**

**RR Junction 17**

I walk the streets, alone.

I have made six bolt-holes across the Narrows, renting cheap, noisy apartments. The landlords want cash. I pay. There are no questions asked.

"Rent due, first every month," the last hag grunts, slamming the door in my face. She reeks of cigarettes and cat shit. I slit open the lice-infested mattress, stuffing a final wad of cash into the seam.

I have finished.

Stalton lives up river, on the northern Fringe of Gotham. Abandoned factories, empty warehouses, a turn of the century slaughterhouse straight from Sinclaire's Chicago and an abandoned railway station all grace this sprawling reek of desolation. To men like the Joker, it's merely a playground. Since the Bastard's imprisonment in Arkham, the scum have slowly begun to trickle back into its noisome gutters. The Fringe is a proverbial Old Town, and tragic, boarded up brick houses line its streets in varying stages of disrepair, the broken dreams of a bygone era.

I cross an empty expanse of rotting tracks, dead and disturbingly silent, a demilitarized zone between Gotham and the Fringe's sprawling shithole. The last steel rail passes under my trudging feet.

A century old billboard swings from a rusted water tower. It is scrawled with a thousand curses, crude, fucking figures, and a bold, red swastika. I pass under its shadow.

I'm on the Fringe. I'm in Old Town.

The Badge is not respected here. The Badge is not brought here. When GCPD wants someone from the Fringe, they send the Riot Squad…or bounty hunters.

But I'm bringing no one in for questioning. I am taking no prisoners. I will bring my interrogation straight through Stalton's door. Already my heart is pulsing, lusty, yearning for the thrill.

I don't need this Badge anymore. I pull it from my wallet, a bronze, burnished star in my palm: _to serve and protect. _I think of all it stands for, of justice and honor and peace…of the mockery the GCPD has made that vow. Of the countless brave officers who have died redeeming it. Of the pride and glory it personifies.

But mostly, I think of Gordon.

* * *

_It is March 29th. It is thirteen years ago. Slowly, door by door, I am leaving Jane C. Arkham Memorial Women's Correctional Facility._

_A squad car sits outside the prison, idling in the abandoned drive. I am clean, my legs shaven, wearing to the bra the exact clothes I walked in through these same gates three months ago. The last locked door opens before me. Gordon stands there, his haggard face more worn and weathered than I have ever seen it, before or since._

_I do not care. I waste no pity on those undeserving. I continue walking._

"_Paltron," he says, thinking perhaps I have not seen him._

_It's fifty-seven miles from the Prison to Gotham City. Fifty-seven long miles along four-lane highways, thundering traffic, toxic fumes of gasoline. I am ready to walk it all._

"_Palton!" He pulls the car in front of me, rolling down the window._

_I walk around it. I had ridden in that beat-up cruiser numberless times over our four year partnership. But always in the front. The last trip I made in the back, handcuffed, a sheet of bullet-proof glass cold and silent between us. Hell of a way to end a partnership._

"_Paltron, get in the car. Please get in the car."_

"_Go fuck yourself, Jim." I say, never letting my eyes leave the road._

_For five faithful miles he follows me, urging me to let him take me back._

_Traffic careens around us. Night has fallen. His flashers blink rhythmically with my unwavering steps._

"_Paltron, please. Get in the car. I'll take you home." His voice never whines, never begs. He barely raises it above a mellow whisper and it drowns in the cacophonous chorus of blaring horns and the roaring of the freeway._

"_Stay the fuck away from me." I hiss._

_The cruiser drops behind me. For a moment I am victorious, the conqueror. I need no one. I accept no help, no sympathy, no pity. I don't need it, and I reject it wholly. I am alone. Horribly alone._

_My shadow stretches forever in front of me. The cruiser is parked on the shoulder, the flashers still pulsing their melancholy message. "Paltron!" Gordon barks, his voice growing harsher. "It's fifty-five miles to Gotham. Just get in the car!"_

_My lips twitch in a silent sneer. For a moment, our eyes meet, and there is anger and pity in his stern gaze. I turn._

"_You've got to report to MCU by eight am, Paltron." He reminds me sternly, standing inside the opened driver's door. "For parole. You'll never get there in time." I stop, drawn back by a loathesome lodestone, pausing against my will._

"_I'll hitchhike, thanks."_

_He laughs harshly, the sound empty and hollow between us. "On 47? Everyone knows Memorial's on this road. I've heard seven calls over the scanner already about a possible runner. No one's going to pick you up."_

_Wordlessly I shake. He opens the passenger door. I am defeated._

_The flashers fade. We are driving._

"_We found the…bodies." He says quietly "And the cell. They molested him, didn't they?"_

_I am silent. A district attorney, a judge, a courtroom of reporters could not drag Angel's secret from me. Gordon will not. But my silence says everything. I am betrayed._

"_Jesus, Paltron." Gordon says. "Wouldn't it have been easier just to _tell_ us?"_

_I stare out the window, the luminescent lines of traffic burning in my eyes. I tell myself it is the unending glare making my eyes hot and hollow, nothing more._

"_You meet with the DA on Tuesday," he continues. "We're…reopening the case in light of, of the circumstances. Dent is still… willing… to represent you." He casts me a glance in the review mirror, either not daring to face me or too uptight to take his eyes off the road. I've known him long enough that it is a mixture of both._

"_I'm not going," I choke._

"_You don't have a choice," he says after a pregnant pause._

"_I said I'm not going."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because I'm not allowed within twelve hundred yards of a school or a fucking daycare! _Oh, SHIT!_" My throat is bursting, burning. I kick the glove compartment, spilling the registration papers and the mileage log across the floor. Tears flood down my twisted face, I am sobbing into the window, I cannot breathe, I cannot see. I am crushed beneath the weight of my stigma: I'm a woman. I'm a marine. I'm a cop…and now I'm a goddamned, fucking child molester._

_There are rapists. Murderers. Dealers and Pimps. Mob. Judges. Councilmen. Senators. A Governor…and they have chosen me. The sin and shame of an entire city rests now on my shoulders. Twenty-seven people die a day in Gotham due to gang related violence…I am innocent, and yet I am sacrificed._

_My blood is tainted. I am no one's savior._

"_We found his clothes, his blood, hair, skin cells, _everything_!" Gordon barks. "They were all over your apartment, all over your _mattress_-" He stops, panting at the fury of his outburst. "What the _hell_ were we supposed to _think_?"_

"_How could you think that you've known me-"_

"_And I know evidence when I see it! Christ, Paltron, do you know what it _looked_ like?"_

_I sob against the doorframe, gasping for air._

"_The boy's in protective custody." He says tersely. "CPS and SVU are handling it."_

"_Angel…"his name is a dying prayer, my last hope, my only love._

"_You are not to contact him. There's a restraining order and a warrant already signed. Any calls, any messages, Paltron," his gaze is cold and fixed. "You come yards of his location and I'm taking you straight back to Memorial."_

"_Angel," I choke._

_Gordon says nothing. We ride in silence._

_The dull hum of the car ceases. I stir._

_I wake, Angel's eyes disappearing into the haunting, glorious sight of Gotham's breathtaking skyline. She spirals into the starless sky, cold, deadly and cruel. A lonely tomb for my abandoned Angel. I have only traded my Hell for his._

_The thought of his boyish innocence, as utterly alone and wretched as I am…_

_Tears fall again, flowing unhindered down my cheeks._

_Gordon's kind eyes brim with compassion. "Paltron," he begins, reaching a hesitant hand to comfort me. He holds me against his chest as I weep…_

_But I am Rachael, I am Mara. His empty embrace fills me only with disgust._

"_Don't touch me," I spit, wrenching away to open my car door and blinking back the hot tears that glaze and prickle my lidless eyes._

_I spare him no second glances. I don't look back. Angel is taken. My promise broken._

_I walk alone in Gotham, lips set, eyes dry. I will not weep again until Aaron Lawless' voice breaks, wracked with sobs over the static of the phone, a bullet clenched tightly in my quaking fist._

_I do not see Gordon for six years._

* * *

I am in Old Town. In less than seven hours, I will kill again. I stare at the badge in the shadow of that swinging swastika, making to drop it from my hand.

But I cannot let go.

I place it again in my wallet.

Not for Jim Gordon, a good man and a good cop, a man so solid and stoic he can bend no rules, not even for his closest friends. Not for Art Jamison, my first Captain, willing to take a chance on the chanceless, leaving behind his kindness like a grandfather, his Beretta like a legacy…Not even for Aaron Lawless, my last and latest partner, perhaps the closest thing I have now to a friend…

I keep it for Jimmy Connolly, a murdered rookie cop…my Angel.

It's the only link to him I have.


	6. Cerberus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 24th**

**18:56 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

Stalton's place is hidden in the old slaughterhouse.

I am perched across the street, high in a rusted water tower. I see every movement from here, the cars, the men…they walk below me, their secret actions made naked and bare. I am a hawk, circling my prey. At any moment, I may fall with a cry and a rush of wings, swooping down and raining my destruction on the guilty. The Joker killed an Angel. He awoke a Valkyrie.

Darkness falls. Fuck. I need IR. I wonder fleetingly if Stalton has them…in the failing light, my binoculars are useless. Yet still I wait. Five cars have come. I have counted 14 men entering. Twelve left again. Stalton, plus two. At least. Who knows how many are waiting with him in the shadows?

I peer down at the sprawling mess of the house. For a moment, I see it as it was, a century ago, when the Fringe was a bustling industrial sector, black smoke belching from locomotives, factory chimneys and the smell of soot, shit, and flowing blood are overwhelming. The tracks pass by from the north, the corrals beginning there, their live burdens unloaded and shepherded into the individual pens, each ending in a long, narrow islet with an iron gate, room only for one animal to pass at a time. The inspector stands there, the impartial God of the Herd, judging each for its merit. They are weighed, they are measured, some are found wanting. The cattle press and shove, lowing to continue forward down the long, dusty passage into the barn. They long for the safety and comfort of their familiar pastures…

Only death awaits them.

The tracks are still visible, a dilapidated livestock car overturned in their midst. A broken crane ends in a heavy hook-for removing the cargo too weak to walk. The corrals run east to west, in many places fallen, rotting boards and tangles of wire still stand as testament to the house's horror. I tilt my head, glancing down the tracks that led to destruction…

I have my approach.

* * *

**August 24th,**

**21:34 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

Clouds darken the sky. The smell of ozone grows strong in the still air. Only a drop or two of cold rain has fallen. All evening the storm is building, the electricity rising, _rising_…and finally a thunderclap, the dome of the sky is rent with forked, leaping lightening.

_She is here._

I abandon my perch. My feet find the skeletal rails of the abandoned track. I follow it north. I cross Styx.

I've entered Hell.

The twelve foot tall chain link is cut and rusted in many places. It offers no protection. I slink through a rent in the fence, winding carefully through the coiled barbed wire. I stalk warily through the darkness, the lightning showing me my way. No rain has fallen. For now, the night spews her anger unheeding.

Perhaps later she will weep.

I am down on my belly, crawling like a snake. I twist past abandoned cars, empty oil drums, the ground a pounded dust of still stinking shit of century dead cattle. It has been seventeen years since Pakistan, but the slithering is cool and familiar, my body sliding liquid and sensuous over the parched ground.

Three men stand together on the perimeter, a trashcan fire lit between them. My crawl is stopped, seconds go by, minutes…time is agonizingly slow. Thunder rumbles as I inch forward, serpentine. Finally they are feet from me… Lightning explodes directly over us. From the silt and soil, the garbage strewn gutter, from the ash I rise. _Hello, boys_.

They start.

And fall. Art's Beretta is gripped firmly in the butt of my palm. Thunder and a silencer cover the gunshots. I touch each neck for a pulse, but the holes over their empty eyes tell me the shot was true. Art's Beretta has only failed me once. It never will again.

Too late I see their radios. Damn. I stoop and rise, holding one stained set in my hand. The storm continues to rage, the sky boiling with angry, black clouds. Changes in atmospheric pressure effect short wave radios-that's why emergency broadcasts are usually aired over AM instead of FM: they carry farther with a much more reliable signal. These radios aren't cheap by any means, but enough interference from a storm such as this could possibly render them ineffective.

* * *

**August 24th**

**22:08 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

My feet crunch noisily on gravel. Two naked, scissoring lesbians stare brazenly up at me from the cover of a Cyrillic porn magazine. Slowly the tome is lowered, and I stare into the face of the watchman. His hand moves quickly from its incriminating resting place and he stands, grunting in irritation and surprise.

Bastard. I know that face_: _handsome and heartless Dmitri Dostoevsky. I know his CV: Battery. Assault with a deadly weapon. Multiple counts of rape. He's been at large since Fear Night…and it takes all my self-control not to shoot the fucker on site.

He looks at the radio hung on the chair in confusion—he has heard no calls. He glances at me suspiciously, knowing I could not have passed the perimeter undetected. He radios for his friends and gets nothing but static. This Stalton is no fool—his men are well trained. Warily he asks me my name and my purpose, and our mutual friend Ben does all the talking. But still he is hesitant, calling again for the perimeter.

I point back the direction I came, towards the faint glow of a far-off fire, where three bodies and my coveralls lay, coated in filth. He has no reason to be suspicious. _The storm is interfering with the radio signals_, he shrugs. _Can't raise them, I'll have to search you again, basic security measures-_

I warn him I am armed, the Beretta holstered in the small of my back. Basic security measures, I say. He laughs humorlessly, taking the weapon, and pats me down.

He pays special attention to my ass and thighs, meeting my eyes as he does so. _Basic security measures_…his eyes are wolfish, and he grins. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. Once I'm in I'll get my fill of blood…. But for now I need Horny here to give me the clear over the radio…

He raises Stalton. "Bitch here wants to see you…she's got cold, hard cash and a great ass." His gleaming eyes burn over my figure again. "She's packing a decent semi-automatic…"

I do not listen to the conversation, my eyes are fixated on the thumb over the call button, the whitening of the knuckle, the tension of the tendons, the pulsing of the muscles…His life-and misplaced lust-will end when that pressure releases.

He sees me eyeing him intently. Mistaking my interest he moves closer. His face is inches from mine, hand raised to his ear, thumb still pressing firmly against the call button.

"—yeah we're had a problem with the radios, some interference from the storm—"

Art's Beretta lies unloaded on the chair, the bullets scattered across the glossed pages of naked, sprawling girls. Dostoevsky sees me unarmed, helpless, and at his mercy. He thinks I am willing. He has been lusting for some real action, and the apparent intensity of my stare was all the invitation he needed…

_Shit._

I have to play along until the call is ended. I need him alive…as long as it takes to clear me.

He stalks me in slow circles, coming nearer and nearer. I turn, facing him, our eyes locked. He comes behind me, sliding a lean arm around my waist.

His free hand finds my face, and I lick the palm as it caresses my quivering mouth, my pursed lips widening and sliding down with the pressure. His fingers explore my teeth, my cheek, then slide down to my neck. I loll my head back, leaning my open mouth back towards his. I turn. Again I our gazes lock.

His boss' ignored voice blips in and out over the channel. He is no longer listening.

My hands are on his back, inching slowly towards his belt, all the while that burning look never leaving his eyes. He has me only seconds from where he wants me, needs me…if only someone would let him hang up that damn radio…if only he could drop it like me to the ground, then his slavering mouth could find mine instead of just graze inches from it, still muttering affirmatives…

_Hang it up_, I tell him with my eyes, pressing against him. _You already have an excuse…_

_Hang up and die, Dmitri._

I pull a little away from him. I feel his heart hammering as my fingers undo his belt. I saw the knife on my approach, still twenty feet away. I would have shot the bastard point blank after the call ended, regardless…but I know this creep's file—can see the high schooler's screaming face he raped on her prom night, her disheveled, three-hundred dollar hair falling down in her face, fake eyelashes dripping in her tears. Broken. Like my Angel. That same, heartless lust lurks now in his hideous, burning eyes. He brought this upon himself. I'm not the first woman he has found alone and seemingly vulnerable…

But I will be the last.

I slide my fingers across the skin under his waistband, groping for his knife. He trembles at my light touch. He glares into my eyes, his desire consuming him. He thinks me a vixen, a goddess, Aphrodite herself come down to worship him. He is no mere man but a god, about to receive his due…

He is wrong. I find him debauched, despicable, and worthy of death. It is coming quickly.

He can wait no longer. "You're cutting out," his voice is cool and crisp, and his eyes never leave mine as that thick, whitened thumb releases the pressure on the radio. It slips, forgotten, through his fingers.

We shudder simultaneously, anticipating two very different thrusts.

He doesn't scream when the knife punctures his kidney—he can't. The body's first response to that level of visceral pain is immediate inhalation. "Did you really think it would be that easy?" I hiss, unblinking. "You're a godfucking bastard and every one of the whores you've screwed and beat all thought the same thing…they were just too afraid to do it." I spit in his ear as I shove him roughly to the ground, his eyes wide in horror. He has only another sixty seconds of consciousness, maybe another few minutes to live…

But even sixty seconds can be an eternity. Anyone who takes advantage of a woman or a child forfeits his right to call himself a man. This horny bastard has spent the last fifteen years of his life placing his name among the worst of men. His gasping face flickers in my anger, and for a fleeting moment I see Angel's father…

_December. Thirteen years ago. The dead woman with green eyes has been in the morgue not twenty-four hours, and it will be another twenty-four before I stumble screaming through the doors of Gotham Memorial, Angel deathly pale and twitching in shock…_

_I am in my small bathroom, hot water pattering behind me, steam fogging up the mirror. My hair is long and my eyes bloodshot. I am sitting on the closed toilet seat, head on my knees, hugging myself, weeping. It's your own fault you're so fucking upset, I hiss. What did you expect? Did you really think you would get to keep him?_

_But no retort comes to that burning, rhetorical question. I can't breathe, the shock of the silence crashing over me. Yes. Yes! I scream. I wanted to keep him oh God I just want a kid even one is one too much to ask—!_

_I sob, falling from the seat to the hard floor, gasping from the shock of pain and the truth. I press my trembling hands against my heaving stomach, feeling the shrapnel scars that stole motherhood from me at age twenty. Just one, one would be enough why can't I just have him I need him—_

_I held the boy against my chest for nearly twenty hours in the station. His bastard of a father was called in for questioning. He already had a history: Battery. Assault. Attempted Murder. There was no doubt in anyone's minds who was guilty. But Gerald had alibis…three drinking buddies. The neighbors heard raised voices. Gerald admitted to a fight. But he had left the house by noon…the body wasn't discovered until ten. Postmortem set the time of death at eight pm._

_Gerald walks smugly into the interrogation room, casting his arrogant gaze over us, knowing he is safe. We chafe and shake, knowing there is nothing we can do. The only witness to the crime is a small child, eight or nine, silent as stone. They tried to take him from me, let a child psychologist examine him, but he whimpered soundlessly and dug sharp nails into my back until I cried out in pain. I sit the examination with him, his head still laid against my breasts. Dr. Quinzel probes him with questions, but he turns his face into my chest and shuts his eyes._

"_What's his name?"_

"_We don't know," Gordon says lightly. "And we can't risk asking the father. We'll only rouse suspicions."_

"_A name is important," she says. "I don't think we'll be able to foster enough trust without one."_

_Enough trust? I wonder, looking at the child who refuses to be separated from me. One of his eyes peeps open, peering up at me. Then—he smiles! The corner of his tiny mouth curves, and he nestles closer against me, pale lids and lashes covering his expressive eyes. He trusts me…_

"_Just tell us what you can," Gordon's tired voice rings._

"_You haven't given me much to work with."_

"_Dr. Quinzel, please," he urges._

"_Post traumatic stress," she says. "That's to be expected, of course." Then she turns to me. "It may be years before he speaks."_

_Gordon sighs and meets my eyes. We don't have years. We now have less than four hours to release Gerald. Without convincing evidence, the bastard will walk…and the most we could do for this boy would be suggest he be enrolled in psychotherapy before knowingly handing him over to the man who killed his mother._

"_How long have you known him?" she finally asks, surveying me with a look of disgust and detachment, appalled that I would cross the patient/provider boundary so extremely._

"_Maybe twenty hours," I whisper._

"_Attachment disorder," she states crisply. " Association by identity. He has made a psychological choice to accept you as his mother-figure, replacing the one he lost."_

"_Where does that leave us?" Gordon asks._

"_At square one," she snaps. "It tells us his mother's dead and he watched it. It will take years to coax the truth out of him—assuming he hasn't forgotten. Memories are like software—traumatic events of this nature are either stored away subconsciously under the surface, or erased completely. You'd need weeks, years to examine him properly, longer to rehabilitate…" she sighs, glaring at me as though she can read my rebellious thoughts. "That child needs fulltime psychotherapy indefinitely, perhaps even for the rest of his life. It's the best hope you have for giving him a normal life."_

_He had chosen to forget. Chosen me to replace, to become his mother. They would force him to remember, to re-live that choice and that day…wouldn't it be kinder, I think, pressing him closer with a sudden pang, just to let him forget?_

"_Thank you, Dr. Quinzel," Gordon sighs, showing her to the door. "We'll do what we can…"_

_That bitch leaves with a slow shake of her head. The angelic boy stirs again in my arms, relaxing his desperate, vice-like grip. He knows, somehow, that danger is gone…_

_Replacing the one he lost…Yes, I think, staring down at his pale, sleeping face, the gentle curve of his jaw, the perfect line of his delicate nose. I choose this. I choose you. He trusts me because he knew, somehow, that I was looking just as desperately for him… For six years I have known I will never hold, never kiss a child of my own. I would never be a mother…_

_I am Sarai. I am Elizabeth. And like them I too have conceived. He is finally mine, and I love him. No newborn mother's stare has ever held so much wonder and release. I wrap him tighter in my GCPD blazer, nestling him closer in my arms, and I gently kiss his weary head, breathing in the sweet smelling scent of his curls. I don't stop to think who may be watching, don't care if my co-workers think I've suddenly gone soft, don't care if that bug-eyed witch doctor turns at the door and sees me. His dark eyes flit open, staring sleepily up into mine. I am lost in their soft stare, their impossible depths and flitting lashes, knowing somehow—somehow—I've found the love of my life: My savior. My child. My Angel. I am redeemed._

_But I didn't get to keep him. Didn't get to take Angel home. Instead I surrendered him against my will, against my conscience, against even my own stubborn selfishness…_

_Twenty-four hours. Gerald leaves the interrogation room as comfortable and cocky as can be. He knows he's gotten away with it. He rounds the corner, and stops dead at the sight of Angel, and that smirk wipes off his face, turning an ugly puce. He's in deep shit, and he knows it._

_My blood turns to ice. The bastard killed her. There is no doubt about it. Angel shudders at the change in my posture, cuddling closer, rubbing his face in my shirt. Then he looks up, and his hart's eyes widen in horror and in fear. His little fingers clench tighter around my blazer. The tension is thick enough, the silence so menacing that the hustle of the office grows dim, then silent._

_Everyone is watching us. I feel Angel's chest tighten, his heart heaving._

_Gerald licks his lips, his eyes darting._

_Then—he changes! It is so sudden I blink in astonishment. He stoops down, less intimidating, his face softening, his voice lowering in pitch and timbre, safe and seductive…_

"_Hey," he says, looking straight into Angel's transfixed eyes, opening his arms. "C'mere."_

"_Hey, it's alright, kiddo. C'mere. Let's take you home," Angel trembles. I try to pull him closer but he resists…_

_No, Angel. No. It's all wrong. Don't go with him—!_

"_It'll be okay. I promise. C'mon," Gerald croons lowly, his arms still out, willing, waiting, he looks all the world like a concerned and compassionate father…_

_Angel trembles again. He is leaning, teetering…_

_No, Angel. No. Please no. Don't leave me, Angel please don't leave me—!_

_Suddenly he is gone, running and crying out flung into Gerald's arms and sobbing, sobbing into his shoulders, still wrapped in my blazer he is carried away screaming, Gerald rubbing his back and comforting him as he walks away down the steps I follow empty and staggering in agony as my Angel leaves me…_

"_I guess we were wrong," Gordon sighs heavily, watching them leave. "He didn't do it, after all."_

_I say nothing. I cannot._

_I look down at the scars again. They spread down my abdomen, my thighs, and my right knee, fleshy and pink, transparent and shining in the light. For six years I have thought they took everything from me—a career, a husband, a hope—but I was wrong. Only now am I completely empty. Angel left me…and that betrayal cuts me even colder and crueler than laying in a Navy Hospital learning through goddamned facebook that the man you gave your virginity to—the man who promised to spend his life with you—has found another woman without scars who isn't sprawled on her ass in a body cast, who still has her uterus and two fucking ovaries to make her woman enough for him, to bear the children who should have been yours…_

_I thought I knew emptiness. We have now become intimate friends._

_I sniff and stand, wiping snot and tears across my face, breath still hitching. The only thing Angel wanted more than a mother was a loving father. That's why he left me, I comfort myself, the words sounding hollow. The only reason. He wanted both and had to choose. I wasn't his choice…_

_But I wanted him. Still want him. I can feel his soft weight and gentle breath against my skin. I have never wanted anything more. Never. I pull back the shower curtain, wadding my clothes up to throw them across the room and my hand is suddenly damp._

_Pink._

_Blood. Blood on the crotch of my pants. Small, tiny spots hardly visible against the navy cloth. But I don't have periods. Can't have periods. Haven't since Pakistan, and that was six years ago…_

_How?_

_Angel in my arms, his perfect face laid against my shoulder, his liquid, deep eyes open and staring up at me. One hand rests gently on his chest, the other pressed under his head, over my heart…he is sitting in my lap. For nearly twenty-four hours. And the whole time, his rectum is slowly leaking blood._

_I stagger, dazed._

_That godfucking bastard. I know no thoughts I am only driving careening through traffic towards the house where Angel's mother died, her green eyes glaring up at me, pressing this burden on me from beyond the grave and I have failed her failed Angel failed everyone…I am shaking I am angry I intend to kill them kill them all—_

_I slam the brakes, the car whipping sideways over the curb. I don't park, don't pull the keys, I run to the house. I pray I'm not too late-_

"_Stop crying you little girl you know you like it you sick little kid you like it don't you you like to be fucked because you're so fucked up—"_

_I find him face down, sobbing, his shirt flipped up over his head and his pants twisted and shoved down to his ankles, and one of those bastards sodomizing him, his disgusting balls on my Angel's thighs, grunting and laughing. Laughing._

_He dies laughing. I break his neck and fling him across the bed before anyone can respond to the clattering of the broken window. Angel is screaming, feet pound down the hallway. I shoot the first in the kneecap, the second in the thigh. Gerald knocks aside my arm and the lamp explodes. He slaps me across the face, I spin and sprawl to the floor. He grabs my hair and drags me, drags me towards the kitchen where the knives are-_

_I twist. I trip him with my legs. He falls. He is shouting to his friends for help to destroy the evidence the cops are coming—he stands again, my nails in his leg, running and thumping down the hall, trying to shake me. He reaches the counter, his hand outstretched…_

_He falls again, the knives scattering across the floor. He throws me into the countertop and I stagger, falling down the cabinet doors. His hand finds a thirteen inch blade, serrated and deadly. He lunges to stab me but meets my outstretched hand, impaling his own heaving throat on the three inch tip of the paring knife._

_His eyes widen in surprise. He coughs._

_I kick him off and stagger back down the hall, knives in hand. The other two are gasping, struggling to stand-one raises a Colt .45, I break his finger, his hand, his arm…_

_I am fury. I am vengeance._

_No hesitation. I plunge the knives in. I don't just castrate them. I take it all. They scream like dying horses as the metal excises the entirety of their pelvic bowls, blood and urine gushing in a viscous, nauseating flow. They fall, both femoral arteries cut, bleating and shrieking…they do not scream for long._

_In the kitchen, Gerald is dragging himself to the door. He will never escape me. I am death. I am a hunter. I pounce on my prey, my hands like talons find his feet and I rush him backwards down the hallway towards the scene of my slaughter, his hands scrabbling across the linoleum, reaching for the remaining knives._

"_You. Are. Sick!" I shout, straddling him, shaking him, one knee in his groin, blood is bursting in bubbles from his lips, the paring knife caught in the cartilage rings of his trachea. "Fucking bastard!" I scream a thousand curses at him, my snarling teeth inches from his face, the fury of my tears and spit spattering his skin. My fist crashes into his jaw. More bubbles of blood, he raises his hands to defend himself. "It's called pain!" I roar, "Get used to it—" I punch him again, "because I'm sending you Straight. To. Hell!" every syllable is accentuated with a blow._

"_He trusted you!" I seethe, that ruined face between my hands. I am shaking it, shaking it and teeth are dropping from the gaping mouth. "He fucking trusted you, you cock-sucking bastard!" One more lunge of the knife, and I take that hideous, hairy lump of flesh and force it down his jaws. His hands struggle against mine, pawing me away…_

I drop him, shaking in rage. I step back, teeth still barred. Sputtering and gagging, he chokes on his own genitalia.

_Even in my anger, it is justice. It is poetry…_

It still is.

Dmitri Dostoevesky lays sprawled before me, eyes wide in death. Somewhere in Gotham City, the seventeen year-old whose virginity he stole is vindicated. Does the fact of his death change anything? No. She will have those memories forever…

But here is one predator that will never hunt again. I reload Art's Beretta, and toss the disgusting magazine onto the corpse's defiled face. It is a fitting shroud.

* * *

**August 24th**

**22:17 EST**

**Sytx Street Slaughterhouse**

Art's Beretta is again on my back as I approach that final door. There will be no turning back. Once I enter, I must see this through, no matter who, no matter how many. I spare the corpse one last glance, and push through the rotting wood.

The long house is dark and eerie. The only light is flashes of lightning that blaze through the holes and cracks in the crumbling roof far above, casting eerie, shifting shadows. It is haunting and terrible. My heart beats faster in fear. I am open. I am blind. What am I walking into?

I pass broken hooks, chains and grapples. Enormous, dried bones litter the walkway, femur, scapula, vertebrae…The house reeks of death. Long ago the Hebrews build a temple as a dwelling place for their god. I wonder fleetingly what fools in Gotham erected this structure for Satan.

There is an odd, breathy sound from the numerous pens up ahead, like wind blowing across the gaping, open jaws of Hell. I round the corner and I freeze.

Dogs.

There must be twenty of them, skeletal, starving, snarling pit bulls. They lunge behind wire cages, maddened by the fury of their hunger. Looking at me they slaver and shake, strings of spit frothing from their gaping mouths. Horrific scars mar their thin coats…both the souvenirs of their countless, brutal fights, and the burns and lashes that drove them to such depravity. There is nothing left in their yellow eyes but rage and an insatiable thirst for blood.

I shudder. I do not pity them, simply understand.

They continue to bray as I walk past.

* * *

**August 24th**

**22:28 EST**

**Stalton's Armory**

I reach the end of the stalls, passing the sand arena and bleachers where the handlers loose their blood-crazed dogs. Here at the end there is a newer excavation and metal stairs leading down beneath the dirt floor. I descend slowly, rapping on the fireproof door.

"Dmitri? Is that you?" It is the voice from over the radio. A small panel opens, and we stare eye to eye. It slides shut again, locks twisting and grinding, then the door itself swings slowly inward.

"Come on in, little lady," Stalton drawls lazily as I slink through the doorframe. His face hardens. "Dmitri didn't come with you?"

"He had a pressing engagement with Ingrid and Nastia," I state evenly. "He hated to keep them waiting."

He chuckles good-naturedly. "That euro-trash bastard and his porn," he shakes his head. "Well, what's a trick like you doing in a joint like mine, ay?" His eyes twinkle in his humor. He is not frightening but conversational, not intimidating but kind. I am not prepared for this.

But I remember a charred car and a judge, exploded hospitals, a desperate search for a missing DA and his assistant, twenty-four hours of grief mourning Gordon before he miraculously returned from death, bringing with him the Devil himself…the chill of two laden passenger ferries given the choice to live or kill. I see the dogs, starving and satanic. His superficial kindness will not save him. Wordlessly I hand him twenty crisp, hundred-dollar bills.

"Ah," Stalton says. "I understand perfectly, Miss-"

"Paltron."

He nods. "Alright then, Miss Paltron. I'll show you around the supply room…"

* * *

**August 24th**

**22:43 EST**

**Stalton's Armory**

Stalton is ex-military. Army, to be exact. He was in Iraq for the Second Gulf War, consulting both as an engineer and security buff for Blackwater. He recognizes my training immediately, whistling at my service record. "Marines, ay?" he shakes his head, lighting up. "Damn. That's some pretty tough shit. Where did they have you stationed?"

"Pakistan?" He grins, pulling the Marlboro from his mouth. "You ever cross the border to go Laden huntin'?"

"Mostly we followed convoys, guarded politicians." I say tersely, shouldering an AK-47 from the racks, testing her feel. She is beautiful and deadly, heavy but not burdensome…

"Shit, girl. A Kalishnikov?" He whistles. "I don't sell a lot of those anymore. They're 'anti-American.' Leave it to Hollywood to shovel that shit. My dad died in the Cold War fighting Russians, but that gun there is still the best damn assault rifle ever made. I don't have any problems with who makes it."

Stalton talks about the gun, its uses, its history. The hilarity of CIA buying them black market from USSR satellites…then selling them to the Afghanis to use against the Russians. The sobering thought of how many Americans died by them twenty years later in the first Gulf War. "It's what you call ironic, really," he says disgustedly. "People should know better. You can't just ally with someone because you have a common enemy. Christ, once that enemy's gone they'll just turn on you." He knows his shit, and he's passionate about it. Had we met in a different time, different place, I might have bought him a beer and swapped stories with him…

"How much do you want for it?"

"Four hundred." He says, shrugging. "But I'll give it to you for three," he winks, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to smile. "Think of it as a military discount."

"Here," he says briskly, as though suddenly remembering. "I've got to show you something. I know _you'd_ be able to appreciate this." He leads me to a back room and flips on the lights. Pay dirt. The fucker is loaded with military hardware, all the initials from IR to RPG. Five days ago, I stood not twenty feet away from the governor's limousine when it exploded into metal shards and hot, belching flames. A high whine, a small puff of white smoke…And now here she is. Lovingly I fondle the unfeeling barrel of the launcher. _Hello, beautiful…_

"Where the Hell you get this shit, Stalton?" I turn.

He smiles enigmatically. "Professional secret, sorry."

"Damn." I pick up a grenade, tossing it in the air and weighing it in my hand.

"Careful!" he barks.

I smile tauntingly. "Stalton, you have them _sealed._" Each is fitted tightly with a plastic cap, holding the pin snugly in place. "And you're the one fucking _smoking_."

He shrugs and laughs at his own foolishness. "Old habits die hard."

He has plastic explosives by the crate-load. "How many of these things to you think it took to blow up the Legacy?" I ask disinterestedly. Was the bastard behind it? Shit. He had to have sold the equipment…

He shakes his head. "It would take thousands. And I've sold enough…Christ. I would hate that. I don't think I could live with myself…but even thousands still wouldn't do the job right. I read the reports from NIST in 2005, ramming FEMA's ass for the World Trade Center report. For a structure to completely intercalate—I mean, it looked just like a telescope folding down…" He shakes his head, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "God. All those people."

I respect him against my will.

"Fuck. I hope the Taliban doesn't claim responsibility. No more war in the Middle East for me. If those fuckers still can't get a democracy going…well, let 'em live in a dictatorship. It's what they deserve." He lets out a puff of smoke, venting his mouth and his frustration.

"What do you think did it?" I ask casually, placing the explosives back in the crate.

"The Twin Towers fell because the jet fuel ignited. It was just hot enough to soften the steel infrastructure—you know, hat trusses, floor joists, the anchors the entire building hung on. They softened, and the weight of the top floors crushed them. From there, the building just surrendered to gravity…"

He shakes his head again, shuddering. "What goes up must come down. Damn. Ain't that perverse?"

"You're saying the Legacy burned." I am confused. Misplaced. I came here for information on the Joker. I came to kill. Instead I find almost an ally, almost a friend. A man who respects a woman, a service record…even life. He is nothing, _nothing _like the Joker or his minions.

"More like melted. I didn't go into architecture, but I know my damn physics. I've done security contracting work—antiterrorism stuff for Blackwater. You'd have to place plastics along every floor, every joist…and even then you're just blowing up every floor one at a time. You think some secretary's not going to notice that? And there's about thirty seconds of Legacy footage from Channel 18. It's all aerial shots, but there's no evidence. You'd have to blow every floor simultaneously, and there'd be windows breaking, debris shooting out…but the windows are only collapsing on the _lower _floors as it sinks. It wasn't just damn similar it was _identical_ to 9/11."

"You'd need a heat signature in the thousands," I state, my eyes back on the launcher. "Even your suppler couldn't work that sort of magic." I trace my fingers down its long barrel. I shudder, knowing this is the firepower available to our enemies. Fuck. And the GCPD have been fighting crime with toys all these years. Suddenly the declaration of martial law seems almost welcome…

"You'd need serious power. Surface to air sort of shit. And that would be pretty fucking noticeable. But whatever it was, it was concentrated in the core of the building, maybe even below ground. Bu you think security's not going to notice that, either? Not since 1993. World Trade Center took care of that one, too. No way that's going to happen again. Every building in this city got inspected for safety precautions back in the nineties, and again in the early 2000's. Cost a ton of money—the taxpayers complained like Hell."

He pauses for a moment, watching me toy with the sights on the rocket launcher.

"Naw. It had be underground. That's the only thing I've been able to think of. Something melted the core, and she fell."

"Yeah?" I ask. Was Stalton just guessing, or showing off? If he was responsible, he might just be leading me on, impressing me with his 'hunches.' I glance at him surreptitiously from the corner of my right eye. No. He was simply musing. "But what the hell could do that?"

"Fear Night."

I turn sharply as he lets out a puff of smoke. It hits my face and I sneeze. I begin to cough. "What?" I choke.

"Whatever the hell happened in the Narrows happened pretty damn quickly. We're talking about a weapon that could vaporize millions of gallons of water through miles of piping—hell, some of the mainlines have yet to be replaced. You have any idea how fucking hot that would have to be?"

Shit. I can't stop choking. My eyes are watering. I lean against the wall, covering my mouth. This happened yesterday, too. But then I was alone. Now, I'm in the lion's den. I can't afford to be weak…

"Sorry 'bout that." He says absently, throwing the Marlboro down and crushing it with his heel. "But I figure whatever the Hell that thing was, microwaves, ultrasound…whatever it is, it's back."

I don't respond. I can't breathe. Can't speak. I should've got some fucking antibiotics…

Agony. My lungs are crushing, burning, my lips turning blue. My knees collapse. I fall. Stalton's arms are around me hoisting me up by shoulders and knees. My vision tunnels as he carries me back up the steps like a rag doll. The last thing I feel, the last thing I see is Stalton's rough hand on my face, his worried eyes looking down into mine…

* * *

**August 24th**

**23:00 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

I am coughing gently, stirring fretfully. I wake. Angel's worried eyes slowly disappear…I blink. They are back.

Angel's eyes are gleaming, dark on white, liquid like light…

But these eyes are cloudy green. I start.

"Hey, Paltron?" I hear Stalton's voice low in my ear. "You alright?" I am lying on a stainless steel table, my legs dangling obscenely. It is much too short to be meant for a human being. He is bending over me, concern written all over his thick features, one hand laid lightly on my right breast—

I shudder and pull away.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed. "I just, uh, had to rub on a lot of ammonia…"

"I smell like piss," I croak, groggily sitting up, my eyes tearing from the rising fumes.

"Yeah, well. It's one of the main ingredients of urine…and smelling salts. Straight is cheaper, and they use it on the dogs," he eyes at me curiously. "You alright?"

"Fucking fine," I say, leaning over my knees to spit. "How long have I been out?"

"Maybe four minutes….Look, are you sure you're fine?"

"Freakin'-A," I cough.

He is rummaging through a shelf, replacing the bottle of ammonia. I look around the tiny room. I am sitting on the operating table, and the walls are lined with surgical instruments and chemicals, whips and heavy chains. In the corner, a car battery and two empty electrodes are surrounded by dry sponges. Even in this hell pit, I look back at Stalton, a strange guilt rising inside me. He could have robbed me, raped me, but he chose to save me instead.

He raises his eyes at my raging confusion.

"You surprise me," I finally choke over the ammonia fumes.

"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "What was I supposed to do? Nothing?" He cringes, almost sadly. Yet beyond the open door, the dogs are barking, howling with the epileptic flares of lightning. His two-faced, hypocritical kindness, staring back, incriminating, demanding justice.

There is a very pregnant pause. I realize now the dogs are not his.

I cough again, hacking fat drops of phlegm.

"I'll radio Carson. He's asthmatic, you know? He's usually got an inhaler on him—"

"It won't work," I whisper, standing slowly.

"Damn radios," Stalton curses. "I should've gone with a cell phone plan," he mutters to himself, raising a finger to silence me. "Let me try one more time—"

"They're not going to pick up," I whisper again.

"This must be one mother of a storm," he says, the radio still pressed to his face, staring out at the dog's crazed antics. "It's even got the dogs upset…"

But it isn't the storm. It's the scent of fresh blood that raises them to hysteria.

"It's not the storm," I say quietly, pulling Art's Beretta from under my coat. I bring the stock of the pistol into the back of his neck and he falls, the useless radio clattering from his hand.

* * *

**August 24th**

**23:09 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

Stalton wakes. I have him bound roughly, sitting against the wire of the arena. His arms are held in place by slip ties, his feet knotted together, his hands sitting out in his lap. He groans as he comes to. I offer him water.

He drinks.

"What the hell?" he asks.

"We're going to have a little talk." I state hoarsely, crouching down in front of him. Before him I have laid out the iodine, the cauterizer, and piles of bandages. I also have the car battery and sponges. I have come to far. I need to know, need to finish what I have come for…

"Who are you?" he finally asks.

"Gwen Paltron. GCPD." I flash my badge. "I need to ask you some questions."

He looks at me nervously, weighing his options. "_DMITRI!"_ he yells.

I toss him the bastard's radio. "He's dead."

He stares at that radio for a long, long time. "You're no fucking police officer."

"You're wrong. I am," I sit down across from him, toying with the cauterizer. "But if the bad guys aren't going to follow the rules, than neither am I."

"The feral cat is always the best mouser," he whispers sadly, with that same, slow turn of his head. I feel a sudden pang. We understand each other, Stalton and I…

"What do you want?" his eyes are riveted to the flat head of the heated metal, sweat beginning to bead down his face. "What do you want?" he asks me again.

"Your supplier. Your customers. I need names, addresses. Points of contact. Everything."

"I can't tell you that." he licks his lips again, shaking his head. "No."

_But you will._

I shrug and pull the pack of Marlboro's out of his shirt pocket. "Want one?" he nods, and I place it in his trembling lips.

"Let me say it so we both understand," my voice does not betray me. "You have twenty-eight knuckles on both your fingers and toes. Two ears. Two eyes. You also have two testicles…we could be here a very, _very_ long time," I state evenly, lighting his cigarette with the cauterizer. "You were kind to me. I want to do this the easy way. But I need to know. I _will_ know. It's just a question of how long it takes."

Stalton looks at me over the burning tip of his cigarette, the only light in the abandoned slaughterhouse. Behind us, the dogs snivel and snarl. Doubt grows in his eyes. I'm a soldier. I'm a cop. I'm a woman. He just saved my life… he sees the struggle in my eyes. He licks his lips nervously. "You wouldn't do it."

Dmitri's knife flicks. He howls in pain, blood oozing from the stub of his left pinky. I press the cauterizer deep into the flesh and the blood stops flowing, the tip blackened…

"Twenty-seven." I look directly into his eyes. They too, do not betray me. He finds no pity here.

Stalton begins to spill.

* * *

**August 24th**

**23:40 EST**

**Styx Street Slaughterhouse**

The arms come from a supplier, ex-military. I press him how to contact. I force him to make the call. I have a meeting in two days with a retired Lt. General about restocking grenades and the possibility of another rocket launcher. Stalton promises cash. The Lt. General is only happy to oblige. I get the names of mob bosses, their phone numbers, their weapons of choice. There are Russians, Italians, a Puerto Rican gang and a black Kingpin…

The interview is relatively painless. He rarely needs probing. He keeps his balls, his eyes, his ears, all twenty-eight joints in his feet and eight and a half of his fingers. Finally it is over, and he rests his head against the wire cages, panting.

"What now?" he croaks as I light him a final cigarette.

I look away. "I don't know."

He needs to die. But I don't have the heart to kill him.

"You aren't going to kill me?"

He isn't _directly_ connected to the Joker. He probably wishes the Bastard was safely back in Arkham or in Hell where he belongs. But he sold military grade explosives and hardware to countless criminals, all who used them to terrify Gotham, many who turned thug for the Joker himself. He _knowingly _passed instruments of fear and destruction to men intending to use them on innocent civilians. Who knows how many _hundreds_ of lives he had the power to save but refused?

I am staring again at the bronze star in my hand: _To Serve and Protect_. That is my duty. It was my Angel's duty.

…_Stalton, what do I do with you?_

His was a different sort of cruelty, a different sort of lust. He finds taking human life distasteful, but for the right price he will sell to anyone, consequences be damned. Those snarling, mistreated pit bulls reveal his principles for what they truly are: ash. As long as their owners pay their rent, as long as their torment and horrible death continues to bring him money, he is willing to look away. _What was I supposed to do? Nothing? _His own convictions condemn him.

He is Gotham, turning a blind eye to violence. Apathetic, uncaring, as long as nothing affects him. If he is not directly involved, he believes his hands to be clean. But it's people like him who watched Kitty Genovese die, as guilty as the bastard who stabbed her. His selfishness is sickening.

And yet—

And yet he saved my life. Is it strength, or something more sinister, that enables me to look beyond this personal merit? Can this one life, this one good deed absolve him?

"No," I finally say, not looking into his eyes as lightening flashes through the gaps overhead. "But I can't promise the same from the dogs."

He shakesis head slowly, a sad, sad smile around the burning tip of that final cigarette. Surrendering. Understanding. _Conceding._

The gates are opened with a lever, releasing the pressure and turning the bottom out. The dogs must slink under the wire to get into the arena, scraping blood from their backs, incensing the fight. I lift the lever—

"Take care of yourself," Stalton whispers in the dark.

—and twist. I walk away. Above the thunder I hear a rising snarl and a scream.

_An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth_…The dogs have their justice, and my hands are either as dirty or as clean as his. But I find that lie as hollow for me as it was for him in the end.

Lightning flashes again through the crumbling roof and rain begins to fall. Her anger assuaged, empty as ash, the night begins to weep.


	7. Deus ex machina

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 25th**

**06:21 EST**

**Harvey James Dent Memorial Parkway**

I left the Fringe early this morning in an old hardtop loaded down with plastic explosives, IR goggles, the rocket launcher, my AK 47 and ammunition for both. I spent the night in that empty hardtop, rain pounding down like machine gun fire on the roof.

We wept together, the night and I.

I left the slaughterhouse, realizing this was the first time I had killed and not enjoyed it. Stalton's death still stained my hands and my conscience. This is the first time I have killed unfueled by anger. I feel neither righteous nor vindicated. _Which damns me most_, I wonder, idling in early morning traffic as the sun's first rays peeked around Gotham's skyline, hazy and watery through the still rising clouds of dust and smoke, six days later. _Finding release in death, or killing in cold blood_…

* * *

_I am 32. Single. Childless._

_I am sitting in Commissioner Loeb's office, waiting. Two city police showed up at my door this morning, and brought me here with hardly a word. I am beyond nervous. I am beyond caring. Let them send me back to Memorial. It's less than I deserve…_

_I sit for hours. But suddenly from this dark Hell I am awoken._

_The door opens, and I start: Jim Gordon! His hair is grey, his face, lined. He is still soft, mild-mannered. My mouth has fallen open…I have risen awkwardly, and I don't know whether to cringe or smile. It is so good to see a familiar face…anyone, anything! A desperate laugh dies on my lips as I remember we did not part on the best of terms…and I have begrudged him bitterly these six long years._

_He sits next to me, but before I can speak, the door opens again._

"_Ah! Dt. Paltron!" The Commissioner enters and extends a slender hand, shaking mine firmly. "So glad you could make it."_

_Gordon stirs, shooting the Commissioner an intense frown. He refuses to make eye contact with me. I wonder if I care, and decide I don't. The resentment I left him with still lingers._

"_What's this about?" I ask. Detective? I have been wary of the GCPD for six years, cutting all ties. A dirty cop—a rogue cope—is worse than any offender. And my record is the worst of all. What can they possibly want from me now?_

"_I've been reviewing your file," Loeb says briskly. "I need to be frank with you: I'm impressed, officer. Truly impressed. Military service, four years of street experience…a shooting record that has Smithson in SWAT reeling. You're the perfect candidate," he looks at me over folded, business-like hands. "We currently have one hundred and four open positions available for an officer of your rank. I'm inviting you to apply for any of them."_

_Bullshit. My chest tightens in anger. Is this Gordon's idea of a joke? I disguise my sneer in a polite smile. These two unfeeling men have the power to make my life even more miserable. I must humor both of them. "You forgot the psychological profile labeling me as an unstable, homicidal maniac and the charges of sexual misconduct."_

"_Charges which were, I have been led to believe, dropped shortly thereafter?"_

_For a long time, I simply stare at him._

"_Four months later," I state. "Sir."_

"_Correct," Loeb says, opening my folder again. "I've also spoken with Harvey Dent—your former attorney, on the details of the case. This whole WATCHDOG project was his idea," his black eyes bore straight into mine, pinning me still. "I believe Detective Gordon testified at both your trials and was influential in your release."_

"_Yes," We whisper together, Gordon and I._

"_Then let me explain," Loeb leans forward across the mahogany desk. "I need officers. Good officers. Ones I can trust against corruption, ones willing to serve their city because she gave them a second chance. I can't find many, and I need more. This—" here he lifts my file, a brief glimpse of Harlene Quinzel's signature on an Arkham letter head, "was a one-time incident. Even the best men make mistakes, and the better the man, the more glaring the error. You were a damn good officer once, Detective Paltron. WATCHDOG wants you back. Gotham needs you back. I'm willing to start you in at your old pay, give you your old job back if you will take it—and if Gordon is willing to vouch for you."_

_I am shocked and silent. Loeb patiently waits my answer. He is confident. He is quick. He doesn't fuck around with courtship…_

_I bite my lips. Rejoin the force? Redeem myself?_

_For six years I have been numbed to pain and emotion. I have given up hope, waiting only for the day when Angel turns eighteen so I can see him again. But is there another light in this purgatory? Do I still…feel? Yes, I realize. I feel pain. I feel shame. Gordon would never vouch for me if he knows what I have become. And even Angel—my Angel!—would shudder and turn away._

_I want this. I want out. I can feel the badge in my palm, the holster around my waist, the weight of the Kevlar on my shoulders…I look at Loeb and he is Art Jamison. A second chance. Forgiveness._

_I turn to Gordon, trying to meet his eyes. I want this. I need this…Jim, please…_

"_No." Gordon whispers._

"_Gordon—" Loeb says in shock._

"_No!" Jim Gordon barks, standing abruptly. He faces Loeb, then turns to me, his voice softening. "I'm sorry, Paltron, but that's my only answer."_

_Loeb dismisses us both._

"_Don't you walk away from me!" I shout to Gordon's retreating back. "Don't you dare, don't you dare walk away from me!_ Fucking face me!"_ I run in front of him, blocking his way, my barred teeth inches from his taciturn face._

_I am shaking in humiliation and disgust. For nearly a minute, the only sound in the echoing atrium is my shallow, ragged breath. Finally, he answers me._

"_You're a Killer," he elucidates slowly. "An unusual Killer. You could've just shot those men, Paltron, but you chose to torture them instead," his sad eyes never waver from mine. "I will not be responsible for that."_

_He shoulders past me. I let out a small scream of rage. He stops and turns back, pity written on his worn face. For one shining moment I see a younger Jim Gordon, not a partner but a friend, concerned and holding me in my tears…_

"_Take care of yourself, Paltron," he whispers._

* * *

_Take care of yourself. _Stalton's parched lips said it, too, around the ashes of a dying cigarette. But just what the fuck is it supposed to mean? I reflect, parking the hardtop in a dilapidated garage and winding my way down the coiled staircase. Is it significant? Or could it simply be coincidence?

The warm rays of the rising sun bathe my face even through the Legacy's aftermath. I need breakfast, coffee, and a newspaper to mull it over.

* * *

**August 25th**

**07:02 EST**

**Starbucks Coffee**

Fuck. I am coughing into a napkin, choking on thick strings of mucous. In the three minutes it takes for my latte, the thin paper is soaked through and congealed with a sickly yellow slime. I toss the disgusting napkin in the waste bin, shuddering at the bitter, tasteless residue in my mouth. I burn my tongue on the scalding coffee, desperate just to _taste_. I sit, silently damning my illness, and open the paper.

**JOKER!**

The word is in all caps, four-inch font, and bold. For a moment I am reminded of 'The Great War,' more than a century ago. I half expect the paper to yellow and crumble in my hands…But no, there is no Franz Ferdinand, no German Empire, no Lusitania…there is only the _Gotham City Star_ laying silently in my lap, Angel's killer laughing up at me, his scarred face twisted into a sneering smile.

I skim the article, my coffee forgotten.

**ERIS UNLEASHED**

**by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press**

_Gotham City Police confirmed last night that the Joker is again at large…escape cited to negligence…officials are currently investigating as to how the Joker might have fled the premises…heavy flow of emergency victims on August 19th partially to blame…system unable to hold the additional strain of 300 trauma victims. "It is with our deepest regret we announce that the patient known as the Joker has escaped from the maximum security ward of Arkham Asylum." Dr. Harleen Quinzel—_

I stop and read the name again. That bitch, head psychiatrist of Arkham? She was their court-appointed psych consult 13 years ago. I can only hope she has improved since then.

_Dr. Harleen Quinzel told the associated press last night. "But it is an unforgivable mistake to regret the opening of this facility to victims of the Legacy Tragedy. Arkham has been listed for nearly 30 years a potential disaster relief facility… and such an event occurred. Like many other facilities, Arkham passed the federal readiness inspection. But Gotham's need surpassed their predictions. It was only through the timely intervention of neighboring counties and their emergency services that Gotham's wounded received and are receiving treatment. We do not regret and cannot afford to regret that nearly 300 people were able to receive emergency care, without which many would not have survived. What Gotham needs to do is unite in cooperation-like the health care facilities and workers not only in our county by surrounding areas of the state-to recapture the Joker. (Assigning guilt) is not healthy psychologically and will do nothing to heal this City nor her citizens of their numerous emotional hurts…"_

I skip the rest, tired of that bitch's bullshit.

IS YOUR FAMILY SAFE?

_"…difficulty identifying both victims and bodies…Police caution parents to keep children indoors and in sight…always have photo identification as well as an emergency phone contact, and medical allergies on their persons…Wayne Enterprises and GC Child and Family Services are making DNA kits available free of charge at local convenience stores…_

DOCTORS URGE FAMILIES TO STAY INDOORS

…_similar to Ground Zero respiratory illness reported in New York City following the tragic events of September 11th, 2001. Toxic gases, asbestos, and high quantities of carcinogenic compounds were released into the air, resulting in a noxious smoke cloud that could be seen even from satellite imaging…The EPA advises to keep indoors with windows shut and sealed, avoid long exposure, especially downwind…the elderly, infants, the immuno-compromised and those with chronic respiratory conditions are advised to evacuate and seek medical attention immediately…_

_No fucking shit, _I think, coughing again into my napkin.

The paper is threadbare. There are no classifieds, no comics, no business nor fashion sections. Many of the journalists and staff are dead…I look up to the muted news playing on the wall, and the faces are not familiar. Rebecca James, normally of the Channel 18 evening news, maintains her post at Ground Zero, speaking slowly into the microphone. But it's nearly 7:30, and it should be Trisha Tanaka's vibrant smile and famous "_Good morning, Gotham!_" greeting us…. She was standing less than five feet away from me when the first RPG struck the Governor's limousine-

_Screaming screaming people are screaming the pavement melted ash soot belching smoke heat my skin burning hold Connolly down don't run don't run stay down stay down struggling screaming stay down stay down! smoke clears woman's eyes staring open bleeding skull split in two—_

I shudder and turn away from the television, coughing and immersing myself again in the paper. Trisha Tanaka is dead. One of hundreds. One of thousands. But her face and her voice were routine to a million people in Gotham City. They say the rubble of the Twin Towers burned for months…I know the impact of her death will linger longer than the smoking reek of ash over Gotham's skyline. Every single detail of the Joker's plan was a goddamned _masterstroke..._

STUDENT PROTEST LEAVES 3 DEAD, 17 INJURED

_A peaceful protest on GSU campus turned to tragedy last night around 10 pm. Students protesting martial law and curfew harassed both police and national guard enforcers…more than fifty were assembled at Gotham City School of Art in the quadrangle, an iconic and popular hangout for student protestors since the 1960's. Police report that shots were fired, leading to retaliation from military forces…parents of victims claim police brutality and unnecessary show of force—_

And on it goes. Mayhem. Madness. Death and Despair. Cameron Shaw was right: Eris has been unleashed. Gotham is become her shrine, the acrid ash rising over her skyline as a burnt offering of appeasement. Riots. Theft. The Joker is not responsible for these: Gotham's Heart of Darkness needed only this catalyst to reveal herself…

I am disgusted.

It takes me nearly forty minutes to finish. My coffee is tepid as I turn the last leaf.

A face jumps out from the back page. My heart leaps. _Angel—!_

FOUR MISSING AFTER ARKHAM ESCAPE

_Initial investigation has concluded the Joker escaped disguised as an EMS team member on a GCFD Emergency Services vehicle…the body of Paramedic Jennifer Hanson was discovered hidden on Arkham property, dressed in patient-issue clothing. The 3 remaining members of the Paramedic team as well as the missing ambulance have yet to be found. Believed with them is 22 year old Detective Jimmy Connolly, reported en route to Arkham Aslum at 16:31 pm August 20th, nearly 26 hours after the fall of the Legacy. GCPD Commissioner James Gordon lists their status as missing, presumed dead until convincing evidence can be provided to the contrary._

The paper says Jimmy Connolly. Lawless just called him Kid. I named him Angel. Another dead face in a city of thousands, and yet-

_Tiny, feathery scars open on my arms and fingers gushing lines of viscous scarlet flesh rips from tendons Angel's nails reaching pleading screaming—_

Next to my hand, a fat water drop eats slowly through the ink of the text. It is followed swiftly by another. A burning ache fills my heavy lungs and heart as I choke on my misery. Suddenly I am sobbing and I fill an entire fistful of napkins with my running eyes and nose. Yet no one notices me. I am not the only-man or woman-to be weeping here so openly. We are together, and yet so horribly _alone_.

"I lost somebody too," a quaking voice surprises me. Tears stop flowing in shock.

She is handsome and black, at least sixty, weathered and bent, her hazel eyes moist behind her bifocals. "My husband died at the World Trade Center, and my grandson died on Monday. He was a sophomore in high school," she purses her wrinkled lips.

"Who did you lose?"

In thirteen years I've never said the words out loud. "My _son_," I choke in a strangled sob. Jimmy Connolly's dark, smiling eyes stare up at me from his Academy photo. He is baby-faced, his dark curls shaven and hidden under his cap. He looks so goddamn _young_…

"This ain't your fault," she says sternly. "Don't you dare tell yourself diff'rently. You can't live with regret, hon," she pauses. "It didn't work for me. It won' work for you."

She is gone. The door swings shut behind her as her empty cup sinks into the waste bin like her words in my heart. I can take no comfort from her counsel.

She is wrong.

* * *

'_No! NO!" Angel is clinging to me, his face buried in my shoulder._

_Thirteen years…for thirteen years I have looked for a little boy, and suddenly I have found him a man. I am too shocked for tears. Thirteen years. Alone. Betrayed. Three months in Memorial….they are nothing, nothing their bitter memory washed away in his tears his eyes his desperate embrace—_

_Around us the ruins of the Legacy spread for blocks. Sirens, lights, ash and smoke, yet I have eyes only for the boy cradled against my chest: a goddamned rookie cop. Lawless's own partner. Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. The scales have fallen from my eyes and at last I see. I cannot kiss him hard enough, cannot hold him close enough…his name grows sweeter on my tongue with every whisper of AngelAngelAngel…_

_Thirteen years but he seems no heavier. I bear him easily to the waiting ambulance._

"_You have to let go," I shush him, kissing his tangled hair, grey with plaster and splintered glass. He is wounded. Dehydrated. Burned. They pulled him from the ashes and dust, and he is coated with the messy afterbirth. It stains his hair, his skin, his uniform. The only color is in his eyes, dark, black eyes with wet, shining sclera. Doe-like, teary, large smears of mud now congealing around them on his pale, perfect face…_

"_You have to go to the hospital," his breath comes fast and hot on my skin, his gentle weight pressing into my breasts. I can feel his warmth, the rise and fall of every breath, the desperate pounding of his heart. He belongs with me, pressed against me…_

"_No! Don't leave me please don't leave me—!"_

"_You're hurt you have to go—"_

"_Please! Please don't leave me no don't leave me-"_

"_Angel," I choke in his ear, laying him down on the stretcher, wrapping him in a thick emergency blanket. His small, grasping fingers reach for me, touching my hands, my arms, tracing their scars with trembling fingertips._

"_You came back for me," Angel breathes as I tighten the cinches across his legs. "You came back!" he struggles, reaching again for me as a Paramedic tapes oximetry to his hand._

"_Please," Angel whimpers. "Please."_

"_I'll come back for you," I choke, his face in my hands, my thumbs pressed gently against the delicate skin of his eyelids…. "I will come back for you. I will find you, Angel. No matter what happens I promise I will find you." Nothing can keep me away. Nothing. Slowly, reluctantly he relents, going limp, his struggle over, his tearstained eyes reading in mine it would take death to stop me from coming to him…_

_His tears are salty on my lips._

_I tuck his arms into the blanket, folding it around him. They tube oxygen into his nostrils, fit a nebulizer around his face. I can only see his doe's eyes, anxious and wet in fear. "I love you," I choke as I leave yet another final kiss in his curls. Each, I tell myself, is the last…his dark eyes are closed. Between the morphine and exhaustion he is finally sleeping. I tighten a last, taut vinyl strap across his waist, then turn slowly, but cannot leave. Drawn like a lodestone, I run one finger down the mask over the perfect line of his nose._

_I wrench away._

* * *

I am Barren. I am Hannah. Granted a son only to lose him. Not six hours later, he would fight for his life, still bound by those four thick, black restraints. He would scream and struggle, unable to run, hardly able to sit…I had only meant to keep him safe. Secure. Twice now I have surrendered him. Twice I have lost him. I thought the first had cost me _everything…_

I was wrong.

I tear the last page from the paper with a sudden shredding sound, folding it gently and tucking it into my wallet behind my badge. It is the only picture of Angel I have ever had.

_I am Gotham. _I observe, staring stonily at the remnants of the ruined paper. _I do not learn from my mistakes…_

My half empty coffee cup falls with the paper into the open waste bin. I came here for answers. I found none.

* * *

**August 25th,**

**09:37 EST**

**Green Street Pharmacy**

I am learning.

I walk through the revolving doors of Green Street Pharmacy. They were closest to the Starbucks, and I am not waiting any longer to seek medical attention…the dead cat catches _nothing._

At the counter, they are polite and professional. It's almost as if it hasn't been six days since the largest attack on American soil occurred not four miles from here, and as if one of the world's most wanted criminals hadn't escaped from a nearby maximum security facility…

They are either ignorant, unfeeling, or plain full of shit. I refuse to play.

_Of course I'm here for antibiotics. No I don't have a prescription._ Instead, I flash my badge and a place a crumpled napkin dripping with yellow mucus onto the counter.

The pharmacist smiles sadly, removing the offensive object with a gloved hand. He'll see what he can do.

I sit, waiting.

A crowd slowly forms around me, and we cough and sneeze in a cacophonous chorus. A woman sits across from me, bouncing a three year old on her knees. A young couple sits next to her, both glowing, his hand on her expectant, bulging stomach. I look away, but it seems everyone brought their children with them: twin babies with matching yellow onesies and barrettes, a gummy two year-old with glazed green eyes and a slimy fist stuck in his drooling mouth, a six year-old girl in her smart plaid school uniform, her slanted eyes studiously furrowed over a Junie B. Jones adventure, and _Angel leans his dark head against my knees, looking up at me and smiling contentedly._

I shake my head. He disappears. I cannot blame them. Of course they would. No one will let their children out of their sight for weeks to come. Fleetingly I wonder how many daycares will be forced to close. But I cannot distract myself for long.

_Angel stretches and yawns, his eyes disappearing. He nuzzles my knee and lays a small hand innocently against my thigh—_

I shudder. I feel his warm weight. My fingers lunge for my face, it is flushed and burning to the touch. I am feverish. _Hallucinating._ Shit. I should've known it when I lost it in that damn restaurant. I stumble to the water fountain, pull the tab and bring the paper cup to my lips. I drink nearly 64 ounces. I turn back to my chair but _Angel is curled up next to my seat, sleeping. His pale face peaceful, dark curls resting on tiny fingers—_

I walk calmly away, rummaging through the non-prescription drugs. Acetaminophen. I drop a ten on the checkout counter and pop four extra-strength Tylenol. They turn chalky and bitter in my mouth. I swallow. I return to my seat, cursing myself for stepping over his sleeping form.

I am surrounded by mothers and their children. My only child is dead, a five day old disfigured corpse, bloated and rotting in the heat of the summer sun…and I think back to 18 months in Pakistan, every charred, bloated, gnawed or desiccated carcass, their look, their sickly smell, their hollow eyes and grinning grey teeth rotting and mottled…

I shut my eyes. Afraid to look downwards, lest the sleeping child curled next to my feet should suddenly raise a ruined, corpselike face. Minutes tick by. My fever burns. My lungs ache. Finally, mercifully, someone turns on the television. I recognize the reporter's voice: Channel 18 News.

I sigh in release, opening my eyes.

Rebecca James finishes her closing remarks. "Back to you, Chris," she concludes her segment with gravity. Her grim, frozen smile stays onscreen for fifteen seconds. "Chris?" she finally asks, staring past the camera. She flashes another weak smile, listening intently to her headset and nervously slicking her red hair. She begins improvising. "Like, like I was saying, EMS workers will continue to service the Legacy bombing for another twenty-four hours. The last survivor was found nearly fifteen hours ago in critical condition. Officials have agreed that the likelihood of discovering any new survivors after this twenty-four hour window is medically impossible. Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad has made the statement that EMS will remain on site in reduced numbers to to o-offer ser-_ser-ices will eme-gencyper-on…_

Static.

We are all silent. The panic and tension become palpable. The white, abrasive noise from the television instills us with unspeakable dread. Six days previously, all the stations went off air at once as camera crews were buried in the falling deluge of dust and ash.

Then—

I jump in shock. Screams. Mothers shield eyes, hugging children close to their chests. The pharmacist drops a bottle of pills that scatter and go spinning all across the floor…

Christopher Holden is dead, his throat cut gratuitously. Splintered bone and raw, cut muscle spill from his shoulders, his head dangling obscenely on the glass desktop. A nauseating pool of blood flows in sheets to the floor.

"Well, uh, now that I've got your uh, your _attention_," Angel's killer drawls lazily, inspecting the handle of the buried meat cleaver. "I thought I'd uh, make a little uh, _announcement_," the Joker smiles into the camera, the studio lights casting eerie shadows on the wrinkles of this stretching scars. The edges of the stitched scalpel wound pucker, and blood leaks slowly from the corner of his Cheshire grin.

_Angel,_ I blink in grief.

"You would, uh, think that with so many uh, so many teachers…_unavailable_ this semester that the uh, schools would still be uh, _closed_," he waggles a finger into the camera, clucking his tongue and smacking his lips. "Well! Imagine my uh, my surprise to hear that Gotham City Public _Schools-zuh_ have uh, Re. O. Pened. On _Schedule_," he enunciates, shaking his head in mock disgust. "And after such a uh, recent…_tragedy_. I'm uh, I'm ashamed," the corner of his mouth catches in a moist squelch. " I really am."

We shudder as one. That shudder spreads through all of Gotham.

"So uh, with us here today is…_Superintendent Reginald Baxter_!" the Joker calls with sarcastic cheer. "So, _Reggie_," he turns in mocking, rapt attention, chin thrust forward over his gloved hands. "What can you uh, what can you tell us?"

Baxter is gimpering in fright, utterly speechless. He is speckled in the spray of Holden's crimson blood. It drips from his glasses like heinous tears.

"Ah," the Joker says knowingly, taking his hand and patting it between his own. "I see." Urine eats through the crotch of Baxter's pants. Around me, mothers are sobbing.

I am shaking in rage.

"Well," The Joker says again, raising furrowed brows owlishly over his yellow eyes. "Let's just uh, let's make this…_easy_. If ya keep the little uh, _kiddos_ back in uh_…school_," A Grinch grin grows slowly, grotesquely, stretching ear to ear. More blood dribbles down his cheek. "I'll uh, blow one up. A uh, _school,_ that is. What uh, what sort of a uh, a fucking _sicko_ would want to, uh, to hurt a uh, a little kid?"

Every mother clutches their child. I cannot: mine is already dead.

"Reggie, I uh, I asked you a _question_," that moist sound is back, his grotesque lips slavering and shifting…

"What sort of fucking sicko would uh, would want to blow up a uh, a little kid?"

Baxter's answer is a string of terrified gibberish.

"Didn't catch that," the Joker hisses.

"Y-you would!" Baxter gasps.

"Uh, well, _Reggie_! I'm…uh, I'm _insulted_, to say the least," it takes both of his purple-gloved hands to wrench the meat cleaver from Holden's neck. It sloughs out more blood as Holden's body careens slowly from the chair, his head twisting on the broken neck until it finally sinks out of sight.

Whimpers. Shrieks. Children are crying. Every parent in Gotham City is riveted to the screen.

"_Now_," he whispers menacingly, leaning down to speak directly into Baxter's ear. "Let's uh, let's tell everyone to uh, to close the schools, okay?"

My heart is racing, pounding. The Joker isn't a god, he's only a man….his pain as Angel plunged a scalpel through his cheekbone proves it. Even wounded, bound and drugged my Angel fought him. _Think. Baxter. Think!_ I groan desperately_. Send an elbow into his solar plexus. Twist and break the arm holding the meat cleaver. Kick his shin, his knee, his groin…bring a fist into his open mouth. Twist, break his neck as teeth pour like blood-_

But Baxter isn't a cop. Isn't a marine. Isn't a Killer.

He's a middle aged, overweight superintendent. He simply whimpers.

"Now say it. Let's uh, let's hear you _say _it, Reggie-boy!" the Joker cackles gleefully. "Say: the schools are closed. _Say it_! The. Schoo_lll_s. Are. _Closed_."

But Baxter can't speak. Can't string the words together. Sweat and tears pour down his gasping face. The Joker clucks his tongue and shakes his head sympathetically. "Don't worry, Reggie-boy. It's uh, it's just…_stage fright_."

Apoplexy. Baxter is shaking, seizing, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. A long, choking rattle comes from his heaving chest. All is still.

A repressed sob. A gasp. A quick intake of breath. The twin babies continue crying. Not even their mother dares to comfort them.

The Joker turns back to the camera, all traces of jesting gone. "One school. For every day." He sets the meat cleaver down gently on Baxter's lap. "So uh, so don't be fucking sickos. Cause, ya _know_…_nobody_ likes it when little kids get uh, _hurt._"

He is deadly, fucking serious.

"Oh. And uh…mommies and daddies, since the schools have already uh, already opened…I'd uh, I'd get there _prit-ty quick-kuh_."

Then he laughs, laughs, laughs until tears stream down his face, running down thick smears of greasepaint…the camera goes to a side shot as a campy musical interlude signals a commercial break. Cris Holden lies sprawled on the floor, his dead eyes staring blankly into those of more than 3 million viewers, and the Joker lazily spins an office chair until Baxter's body topples slowly off.

Static.

Rebecca James' confused face reappears. "Chris? Chris? I don't know why I can't raise him-"

"Beck, you're _live_!"

That horrible irony and the picture disappear as one. I wrench the cord from the electrical socket with a shaking fist, that Bastard's words still ringing in my ears: _And the truth folks, is I might be the devil, but here I get to play uh, god. So ya better believe, ya better have uh, fai-thuh. Because I am om-ni-po-ten-tuh. So when I say something will happen it's gonna happen…_

Silence. The identically dressed twins continue to wail. Even the safety and comfort of something so familiar as their mother's arms is now both empty and violated.

Pandemonium. People stagger and run, grabbing cell phones, blackberries, keys…in a matter of five minutes, every mother, every father with school age children will careen recklessly down the freeways, backlogging traffic, slowing down emergency personnel…exacerbating the crisis…

I shut my eyes: _Angel's face. Broken. Marred. Smeared against chipping plaster to form a grotesque, sinister grin. "Don't go to the police. Don't trust the police. They might put up a good fight-tuh…but in the end they're whatcha call…powerless. So who are ya gonna trust? Me? Or them?"_

The sound of panicked feet slowly dies. My eyes open. All is still.

Trampled pills lay crushed and forgotten on the dirty tile. Gotham has made her choice.

Mine still lies before me.


	8. Ruinosus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 25****th****  
**

**11:12 EST**

**Green Street**

I leave with two bottles of 875 milligram dosage Amoxicillin. The pharmacist stares at me in shock as I approach the counter, crunching the scattered medication beneath my feet. It takes him nearly a minute to mutter a hasty apology, and ask me to repeat myself.

"GCPD. I need a broad-spectrum antibiotic. The strongest you've got."

He doesn't hesitate, just fills the script. No pleasantries, no casual conversation, no warning about avoiding long exposure to direct sunlight or probiotic bullshit…he places the bottles in my palm with a shaking hand. "You get that Bastard," he chokes.

For the last two days I have intended to. Even now there is no blood but hatred that surges through my veins…yet Stalton's death reminds me of my guilt. I step back through the revolving doors, blinking owlishly the muted sun. I killed. I didn't enjoy it.

_But._

Dent. Dawes. Tanaka. Holden. Baxter_. Angel._ Countless hundreds—thousands now. Someone has to stop this. Stop him. That little fuck deserves to die.

…_and screaming._

And now, now as traffic whizzes by, horns blaring, now there's a slim window of chance. I know where that Bastard is. _Was_. Not two miles from here…

I am running, sprinting down the sidewalk as cars careen around each other, swerving madly through every intersection. With traffic the way it is, with the Legacy only a week old I have a better chance of reaching the station in time than any other GCPD personnel.

Left, right. Left, right. My neck aches with the effort, straining as I look frantically back and forth across the crowded street. There is no break in the wall of speeding cars. They pour down, ignoring lines and lanes, tires screeching, horns blasting…

Adrenaline burning, chest heaving, in a desperate run I pace the length of the block. But there is no break. The cars continue to come. I tear my hair in frustration, swear, kick a parked Chevy, its alarm now joining the ringing chorus of dented, damaged cars. TV 18's logo smiles tauntingly down at me from a billboard. I'm less than two fucking miles away, and I can't come any closer.

_I am 21. I am desperate. I must cross the street have to get to Jon—! "Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!_

"_Jon! JON!" he has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"_

"_PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—_

"_PALTRON!"_ Tires screeching, cars swerving Red's shriek cuts across eighteen years I spin and—

CRUNCH! With a violent lurch Mercedes and a Taurus t-bone in the intersection only feet in front of me. I throw myself to the ground, covering my face as glass shards spiral through the air cars continue to pour, carrying the locked vehicles in their momentum. I raise my head as the tangled scraps spin through the awning and front window of the Starbucks I vacated not three hours before…

I shut my eyes, remembering: _a downcast Latina pours steamed milk into my latte…two pimply, scrawny teenagers take orders at the cash registers…_

All dead. _Oh, fuck._

The tinkering of shattered glass, the horrific grinding noise of metal on metal, the squeal and reek of burning tires….Car alarms blare, spilt fuel fumes rise…I open my eyes and traffic is at a standstill. A blockade of cars lie smashed and broken across the road, barring the way for miles. Flames erupting, drivers screaming, shouting, climbing out windows, running, swearing, exchanging blows…a shot is fired. The Joker doesn't even have to blow up a school to kill and maim today. I watch sprawled on the cement as Gotham City tears herself apart.

_Joker._

I groan as I put my weight on my hands and knees, scraped and bloodied from the fall. Art's Beretta lies ten feet from my outstretched hand. I crawl, groaning in pain, dragging my right leg behind me. Seventeen years with a goddamned orthopedic knee and fucking now it decides to give me trouble.

I grimace bitterly, gritting my teeth, willing myself forward. My palms are shredded on knubs of green safety glass. Fuck. Seven years ago I was still fighting bare-fisted every night at Underworld….even three years ago on Fear Night Lawless and I went in with SWAT to break up the largest prison riot in US history—that was the year Lawless turned forty. What was it he said?

_I'm getting too old for this shit._

I smile bitterly, the familiar feel of Art's Beretta now firmly gripped in my palm. It's not as funny as it once was.

* * *

**August 25th**

**11:27 EST**

**Green Street**

_Oh shit. Fuck. Damn. Oh Christ—!_

I fall again, my right leg buckling underneath me. I sprawl gracelessly onto the cement, cursing and tearing. _No. Not this. Not again. Please not again—!_

* * *

_Washington DC. The Pentagon. I am twenty-one. In uniform. A Purple Heart is pinned to my chest. My fingers are still tingly from shaking hands with godammned POTUS, my face a little flushed. It is a glorious day, the sun just right, a hint of wind… Red chucks my head roughly and grins down at me._

_I squint up at him, his honest smile lost in the glare of the afternoon sun._

_I am sitting in a wheelchair._

_Red doesn't pity me. Neither does Bear. Red says he likes me better in a wheelchair because it's the first time he's been taller than me. He also says he likes to push me because he can "better admire your breasts—I mean, your bling."_

_Bear mutters something about don't ask don't tell, and calls him a Dyke. I laugh and call them both assholes. They chuckle and ask if I'd like to head over to Bdub's to watch the game—_

_They load me onto the bus, irritated glances and mutterings quickly stopping as people see the reason for the delay. "It's probably some idiot with a bike" turns quickly into awkward embarrassment. Their frustration turns to pity. Bear glares at them, Red reaches behind to buckle my chair to the wall, telling me to just ignore, they don't understand—_

_They treat me like a sister. We are the only Third Reconnaissance Division survivors of the Warizistan Incident. We are family._

_We get sidelong glances from all entering passengers. Some are pitying. Some are angry. The war has never been less popular…_

_But I am with my two closest friends. We are about to spend an all American night on the town in DC with wings, Budweiser and football. I was just awarded one of my country's highest honors. For a moment—just this moment—even Jon's absence, even this wheelchair cannot quench my spirits._

_Hot wing sauce burns my tongue. I wipe foamy beer and dripping, delicious chicken grease from my laughing mouth. We talk about old times. Basic. Our Eurotrip. The time we thought Masterchief's dog was going to blow us all to hell fetching a live grenade—Masterchief had a laugh at that one. He did that to every bunch of wet recruits. I laughed. Bear gave a shaky, terrified smile. Red just blushed—he had pissed himself, hence his nickname…_

_The Steelers are winning. We toast our friendship. We toast our comrades, Mortalis…we toast our good times together, we toast Masterchief, we toast Masterchief's dog and the whole damn country of Pakistan. Bear toasts the Steelers, asks Red if he's going to toast the cute little piece of ass he's been winking at all night…"Toast her?" Red says in astonishment. "I barely even knew 'er!"_

_I am laughing so hard my ribs hurt, my face aching in the widest smile. I feel so light. So free. Red raises his beer one last time. "To good friends. Good times. Good beer!" he cries._

"_Fuck yeah," I say._

"_Semper Fi," Bear nods somberly._

_It is nearly midnight. We leave Bdub's, the air is cool and brisk. It's a great night to be out, and we attract strange looks and angry stares as we bumble down the sidewalk, Red makes car horn noises and jet engine sounds swerving me in and out of the crowd in a wheelie, I am shrieking in laughter. We talk and joke more drunkenly than we really are, giddy with life and high spirits, Bear belting out cadences and stepping in time, I keep beat with my good leg, tapping my foot on the pad as Red inserts obscenities into his song—_

_Bear stops cold._

"_Aw, shit!" Red cries as I let out a whoop of surprise and am jostled forward into Bear. I face plant in his ass. "What the hell, man?" Red asks, righting me as I giggle in embarrassment. "You okay, Paltron?" he says concernedly._

"_Sure," I shrug. I open my mouth to jibe Bear, crying "Company, halt!" but the words die cold and empty in the night air._

_He is still standing stock still. Rigid. Snarling._

_Red takes a sharp breath. "Motherfucker." Still smiling I lean over the arm to see what is wrong-_

_My heart stops. It's Jon. Jon—!_

"_Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!_

"_You cocksucking bastard!" Bear lets out a roar, and Red tackles him to the ground, holding him down as he shouts, tearing to get away—"Don't you turn your back on her don't you dare turn your back on her—"_

"_Jon! JON!" He has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"_

"_PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—_

* * *

I stand, dragging the leg behind me, hobbling to a storefront and sitting heavily. I rip the tattered, bloody pant leg open and inspect the damage. Glass. Rock. Blood. I don't have time for this…I can see the orthopedic piece, gravel and glass chunks wedged between the artificial cap and the synthetic plate of the femur. The leg won't straighten because it _can't_… I am digging them out with my fingers, scratching, clawing away at the raw, red flesh.

I take out the keys to Stalton's hardtop. I begin to dig. My face twists, eyes shut. I wince in agony—

* * *

_I wake. Blink. Blood trickles down my forehead. It is bitter in my mouth. I am lying on the asphalt, the metal frame of the chair crumpled around me. I blink again, the headlights glaring…Jon. He is rigid in shock, standing not twenty feet away, one hand still on the open car door, his mouth hanging open in horror and disbelief._

"_Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you okay?" I don't hear can't hear have senses only for Jon…_

"_Jon!" I try to stand. I remember I can't. I begin crawling, dragging, slithering my way towards him through broken glass and twisted metal. I hear Red and Bear shouting, shouting behind me._

"_Don't you make her crawl you motherfucker don't you dare let her crawl!" Bear's lungs are bursting, the driver of the car is baffled people are staring, staring—_

_He is feet from me. I am staring up at him, covered in blood and tar, my eyes puffy and disgusting in tears, nose dripping. "Jon—" I choke, reaching bruised and broken fingers for him—_

_She is in the car. Tall. Blonde. Slinky little black dress, makeup, nails done. My heart breaks. My split lips part. She is a more feminine version of me—a copy, a fake. "Jon."_

_Red is holding Bear back but failing. He is incensed. Heaving, his curses his threats his volume people are leaving going back indoors getting in cars all my hopes crushed love spent I am bawling as I look at her perfect figure, her confused face._

"_Look, Paltron, I—" Jon stammers._

"_I'm your wife!" I am sobbing, choking. "I'm still your fucking wife—!"_

"_He's not worth it, Bear!" Red shouts as Bear knocks him to the ground. "He's not worth it—!" Bear is loosed, his giant hands finding the frame of the chair and he brings it over his head and swings—_

"_NO!" Red cries as Bear brings the full force of the frame down. Jon topples into the side of the car, raising his arms to defend himself—_

"_JON—!"_

_"Fucking. Cock. Sucker!" Every syllable punctuated by a blow "And your goddamned. Little. Cunt!" Jon unconscious she is screaming crying the windows smash around her Red holds me I am sobbing, sobbing—_

* * *

A lone motor breaks my concentration. I open my clenched eyes and a cute, innocent yellow Beetle trundles down the opposite sidewalk across the intersection, as slowly and merrily as if sightseeing—

Blood leaks hot from my knee, slippery on my fingers.

Joker! His head is leaning out the window like a dog's, happily surveying his Kingdom of Chaos, green hair blowing back, eyes shining with a hideous light—

Rage. Hatred. Fury. But I can't grasp Art's Berretta with my slick, blood-greased hand—

For one second and one second only we make eye-contact. I bare my teeth. _Memorize this face, Bastard. Someday it's going to be the last thing you see._ He raises an eyebrow, curious, narrows his flaming eyes and nods slowly, his smile gone. He hits the gas—

…And disappears.

Fuck it! I stand one-legged, leaning on the window box for support, committing every detail of the Joker, the car, the license plate to memory—

_Like the Joker registers his goddamned car, bitch._ I shake my head, grinding my teeth in my frustration. He was right there he was _right fucking there_—! I let out a shriek of fury, fall back on my ass and shove the key into the wound, blood shoots and splatters over the sidewalk the pain is excruciating unmasked by my adrenaline and anger—

I writhe and cry _AngelAngelAngel—!_

A squelching pop. I fall back, panting.

It is loosed. Clenched firmly between my shaking fingers is piece of concrete the size of a pea. It is bloody and smeared with chunks of my flesh.

Cursing, I wrap the wound. And walk.

* * *

**August 25th**

**13:47 EST**

**103rd Street**

Left. Right. Left-Right-left. Left-right. Right-_left._ Right-_left_. Right-_left_…

_Think, dumbass. You have to plan. You can't just go charging blindly into a situation like that—!_ I berate myself as I limp down 103rd. TV 18 is only blocks away, the roads finally and eerily quiet, littered with abandoned, dented cars.

I can walk now, the gravel gone, the joint works smoothly. But I won't be running…not for awhile. I let my emotions get the best of me. Of course traffic was going to be bad—if the GCPD couldn't get there by car how the Hell was I planning on getting there on _foot_? I would've had to cross six major roadways—

I'm lucky this goddamned knee is the only damage.

My own words come back to haunt me: _If I am going after the Joker, I will have to learn to wait. I have to be strong. I have to be prepared…_

The Bastard was less than fifteen yards away. And I did nothing—fucking _nothing_!—to stop him. Angel I am so sorry…

Right-_left_. Right-_left_. Right-_left_…

I look like a goddamned peg leg pirate. But TV 18 is only two blocks away. Not that it matters…the Bastard is gone. But I am drawn, against my will, a burning desire just to _see._

They haven't found Angel's body. This isn't Angel's body…but just seeing Holden will give me closure, relief, purpose…

I am Thomas. I just need to see.

My right leg on fire, I have walked the entire distance. GCPD cars have swarmed into the area, parking in the street, the sidewalks, everywhere—

A beagle, a bloodhound and a German shepherd wearing GCPD Canine Kevlar all sweep the streets. "You won't find him." I pant, doubling over in pain and retching, leaning against a squad car. "He went West. Down 99th."

"You saw him?" one of the handlers asks sharply.

I flash my badge, wiping sick from my chin. "Yeah."

He grabs the radio from his belt. "Commissioner? We've had a sighting. Plainclothes cop saw him on 99th. I'm sending her in."

My heart sinks. _Gordon_.

"Ma'am? You're going to cross the street and go through those doors—" his words are lost. I nod numbly, stumbling across the car-strewn road, every government acronym in Gotham scrawled across their sides. I've walked nearly two miles on this goddamned leg, yet the next one hundred yards seem impossible.

The pain of the wound. The weight of my guilt. The dread of facing Gordon—

WHAM. I go sprawling, skidding, skating across the asphalt. I am dazed I try to raise myself, falling again—

I look up. A silver Porche looms over me, its driver and passenger both pale and hurriedly clamoring out.

I struggle to stand, fingers slick across the waxed hood. I explode. "Y_ou did not you did not you did not just fucking hit me!"_

The man is pale and shaky. He looks utterly lost as I hurl insults at him. "I walked two fucking miles through Carmageddon Shit and now fucking _now_ you hit me?" I fall back on my ass. "Jesus Christ are you fucking _blind?_"

"I think she's fine, Mr. Wayne," the passenger says, patting the driver's arm, a kind smile easing across his relieved black features. The driver is haggard, worn, exhausted. He lets out a sigh of relief that is both a laugh and a sob.

I don't care. I have to get inside. Have to see Holden, to get to Gordon—

I stand. I take three steps, ignoring their protests. My leg collapses.

I fall.

"Holy shit! You're bleeding!" Wayne says. "Jesus Christ! Fox, she's bleeding! Here, let me help you-!"

_Twenty-one. Bear has been charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. His trial is set for a month from now. I am about to be released from a two-day stay in the hospital for observation. Red enters, haggard and drawn. With him is a nurse with a wheelchair._

_"Alright, girl," he says sadly. 'Time to go."_

_I can't look at anything but that chair. Mine lays broken in the middle of the road, I crawl to Jon…Bear swings it again and again into the car until Jon and his girlfriend are nothing but pulpy, bloody masses, the car destroyed…I just wanted Jon. Jon. I have lost him. I have lost Bear. I look down at that chair and know that this has taken fucking everything from me. And it will for the rest of my life._

_I am not getting in that chair. I will never get in that chair again._

_"No," I whisper._

_"C'mon Paltron. Let's go."_

_"No," I say firmly, shaking my head. "No."_

_"Ma'am," the Nurse begins._

_"Fucking no!" I shout, tears pouring from my eyes my face twisted and contorted. "No!"_

_"Paltron, c'mon just let us get you in the chair—" I am fighting them, struggling against them._

_"NO!" I wrench away, staggering, falling but for one glorious second I stand on my own two feet unaided. I hit the tile hard, but I don't care. I stood I can stand I can walk—!_

_"Paltron, what the hell? Let me help you—"_

_"No!" I struggle, using the bedside chair for support. I am shaky, weak. The nurse is protesting, threatening to call the doctor, the psych ward, to obtain restraints—_

_"I said no, Red!" I claw at his helping hands, pushing him away—_

_I collapse._

_"Don't touch me don't touch me don't fucking touch me!"I am crying, sobbing, screaming but I am not weak. I am strong. I will never, never accept help standing or walking again. That goddamned shrapnel took everything from me: my life, my dignity, Masterchief, my friends, my career, my husband, my children, my modesty, Bear-_

_I will take back the only thing I can: I will take back my pride._

* * *

"Do. Not. Touch. Me," I hiss, refusing the pro-offered, manicured hand.

"No, you're hurt this is all my fault let me help-"

"Miss, please, let's let a medic take a look at your knee," the black passenger says concernedly, staring at the bloody mess dripping down my right shin.

I ignore him.

"No, really! Let me help! This is my fault I'm sorry don't please, miss, you _need_ _help—!"_

I roll to my hands and knees, ignoring his protests, putting my weight on the bad leg and slowly bend my left. It is excruciating—but I can't rely on my right knee to stand. Left leg up, I lean to the left, hands on my thigh and _strain_—

Still feverish. Lungs aching. Cold sweat soaks my hair and clothes. Blood pours from my knee. I straighten and stand, trembling, head held high. We are nearly eye-to-eye.

"No, Mr. Wayne," I state, unblinking. "I _don't_."

* * *

**August 25th**

**13:58 EST**

**TV18 Studios**

Wayne bumbles after me, makes a show of opening the studio doors for me. "I really wish you'd let the medics take a look, make sure you're okay—"

"Mr. Wayne," I turn, "I'm not going to sue."

He blinks in surprise, taken aback. "I meant to uh, to uh…"

The man I know only as Fox chuckles and shakes his head.

"And I don't want to go to dinner, either. Or sleep with you. Now please," I look him straight in the eye, "being a conceited asshole isn't a federal offense but impeding justice _is_. I'm giving you five seconds to get out of my way and then I'm arresting you."

"Wait—you're a _cop_?" Wayne asks in disbelief.

"Not just _a _cop. A damn good one," a gruff voice growls. I turn, and Aaron Lawless is standing on the second floor, smiling grimly down at me. "Perhaps the best."

It's been three days since I last spoke with him. I smile tiredly back, knowing already I have begun the foundations for the wall that must drive us apart. The Joker took my Angel…and before this ends, he will take my badge, my honor, and the love of everyone I hold dear.

But for now I look into his hazel eyes, and they are the eyes of a friend. It's so goddamn good to see him.


	9. Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani

**Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani: Survivor's guilt. Love and loss. Gotham may never be the same again.**

* * *

**Monday, August 19th, 2030**

**A day that will live in **_**insanity**_**—President Geraldo Calderon, USA**

_My fellow Americans,_

_Today, tragedy has befallen us._

The day seemed too normal, too routine for notice. None rushed to hug a spouse or child that were unaccustomed to doing so. None felt compelled to repent for past sins, seek counsel or look to God in thanks. No prophecies of Nostradamus were unearthed and examined. Life in Gotham City went on much as it had for the last year, cars zipping hurriedly through the metropolis like ants through a maze, mindless drones, their pre-established, pre-ordained, organized paths clear and straight before them. But the crossing of so many paths is confusing and beyond mortal comprehension. Only a Deity could know of their countless conclusions.

Perhaps He does know. Perhaps He weeps.

_But I can pledge to you that this tragedy will not go overlooked. I promise you that the ineptitude, the violence, and the carelessness that accompanied federal aid after Katrina will NOT be the legacy of this administration. The American people deserve better. The people of Gotham City deserve better._

For every action there is an equal yet opposite reaction. Routine is necessary for the tragic to be truly appreciated. Death came unexpectedly, inescapably, leaving the city of Gotham reeling and crippled in its wake. Hoping to _Stop the Violence_, the leaders and citizens of Gotham succeeded only in raining down more destruction and death…

_As of now, no group has stepped forward to claim responsibility. But I can promise you this: the perpetrators of this act will be discovered. They will be hunted. They will be found. And they WILL be brought to justice. America has been and will remain the home of the free and the brave. We will NOT be bound in fear._

Perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps He _laughs._

_The crisis in Gotham City is now this government's chief concern. Across our great nation, the terrorist threat level has been raised to red, and all government offices will be following protocol in accordance to these measures. There will be delay. There will be inconveniences. I can only urge you sincerely as my fellow citizens to comply with both grace and patience as we work together to overcome this most desperate of times._

Do not go to churches nor temples, shrines nor mosques. Do not pray and cry for mercy, for hope nor understanding. Do not join hands and sing, ignite no vigil candles. Do not seek to find strength of heart and solidarity in friends, neighbors or community. Do not look to the heavens for Hope. Offer up no prayers of _Dona Nobis Pacem._ The powers of protection are either dead or deaf. We can no longer afford to worship them.

_As your President, I thank you for your cooperation. Good night, and God bless America._

If there is a God who truly is good, He has utterly forsaken us.

* * *

**23:52 EST**

**Ground Zero, Gotham City**

Ash and smoke belched in rising clouds through the stadium lights. The roar of helicopters thrummed through the air. Sirens screamed, electric blue and incandescent reds flashed like epileptic nightmares. Shadows of dust rained like snow. Seventy-four soreys of glass, concrete, and steel choked an expanse of six city blocks.

Commissioner Jim Gordon blinked, a crust of plaster falling from his trembling eyelids. A helicopter veered overhead and he shielded his eyes…even over the din of the blades he heard a noise, wailing and whimpering, like a baby crying. He stumbled towards the sound.

GCPD K-9 Units. Malanois and German Shepherds whined piteously, panting on their sides, eyes dulled, feet burned and bleeding. A veterinarian offered them food and water, injecting them with antibiotics. "These dogs need rest," she snapped, looking up, not recognizing the Commissioner, his face blank in shock, unheeding. "They're dying of exhaustion!"

A fire fighter staggered by, hauling the charred body of a six-year old girl. "Medic!" he shouted hoarsely. "_I need a medic!"_

The vet leapt to her feet, helping to lay the child down slowly. Her blackened lips were swollen and dry, her ragged body a mess of blood and burns. "IV fluids! STAT!" she barked. "We need an ambulance-"

"There are no more ambulances-"

"Christ she's going into shock-"

" _I don't know what to do just help her please help her_-"

"AED!"

The fireman ripped through her canvas bag, but the only medical supplies were cans of dog food, syringes of penicillin, canteens of water, IV bags, ace bandages, tweezers…the vet's arms pumped on the girl's tiny chest, flesh sloughing off in sickly smears. She looked up at the expectant fireman, not bothering to place her stethoscope on the girl's heart. "She's gone." she whispered.

The man burst into sobs, rocking back and forth as the woman closed the child's eyes.

Gordon watched, shell-shocked, the letters GCFD on the man's uniform igniting blue then red with each flashing strobe of sirens. The vet turned away, retching and moaning. The dogs continued to whine, licking at shining, bloated wounds-they grew distant, fading into a white fog…more dust…

_Ambulancehelpgodohchristmedicshithelpmedicstatmedi cmedic-_

Gordon blinked, staggering.

_OhfuckflareupIfoundoneoverherehelpGodohhelpChristJ esusbringabodybagmorphineIVstatmedicmedicIneedamed ic-_

"_Jesus, GORDON!"_ The world was spinning, spinning down into whiteness and the haggard face of Detective Aaron Lawless shone for a moment then was lost.

* * *

**Eighteen hours previously...**

**06:00 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

Yellow eyes opened impatiently. The man known only as the Joker was awake.

A slow, methodical ticking noise rang from outside the door, growing louder and louder until it paused directly across his cot. A shadow loomed suddenly over him. From under the door his shifting eyes caught a flash of brilliant purple.

That sound—and that color—belonged to a woman's high heels.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel peered in through the security glass, frowning. She coughed loudly, scribbling a short note on her patient, then coughed again. Satisfied, she tucked her clipboard between her hip and shoulder and continued primly down the hall.

Those yellow eyes glittered, narrowed, then shut. Eight hours and counting.

A peaceful, patient smile played upon his ruined lips. He licked them once, in anticipation.

* * *

**07:00 EST**

**Sisters of Mercy Convent**

Sister Teresa Margaret rose stiffly from the kneeling mat. Finished, at last, with morning prayers. She donned a black habit and a white wimple, covering her hair, her neck, her arms until only her face and hands were visible.

She left the small, dark room, making her way noiselessly down the hall to the Convent's kitchen, the shelves bare and almost empty. _The poor you will always have with you…_ They might not be able to feed all that came through the doors this morning. She would go without-perhaps many of the sisters would join her for a fast…After all, were they not called to feed His lambs and sheep?

Sister Teresa Margaret's face remained docile and passive as she worked. It was Monday. The Charity Pantry had been running low, but there would be a delivery tonight. Inside, deep and forgotten, Maggie Kyle smiled. Mondays were her only tie to her old life. On Mondays, her brother dropped off supplies for the pantry.

In three years, he had never missed a day.

* * *

**08:02 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

Detective Aaron Lawless nodded a curt good morning to the receptionist, his face drawn. Late nights, early mornings, weeks of strategic planning and rehearsals…he had stumbled in after midnight both on his eighth anniversary and Ian's third birthday…this _Stop the Violence_ Campaign would be the death of him, he was certain. MCU was handling the logistics…but for an event of this magnitude quite a few officers were on temporary loan from Homicide. The Detective was one of the 'lucky' chosen for this 'honor.' In fact, he had done more work for MCU this last year than he had for his own department.

_Can't wait for this _Stop the Violence _shit to be over,_ he grumbled to himself as he unlocked the glass door, dropping his briefcase in his cluttered office, winding his way through the crowded floor to the coffee maker.

Commissioner James Gordon himself was in the small galley, pouring a belated cup of coffee.

Even tired, Lawless couldn't resist a playful dig. "What are you shooting these days?" he grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

'Straight, unadulterated espresso," Jim's mild voice lamented. "But don't tell. Barb thinks I'm decaffeinating."

"Yeah, well, tell me how that one goes," Lawless shook his head, helping himself to a deep, full mug of pure black. "We're becoming old men, you know?"

Jim chuckled tiredly, pushing his large glasses further up his nose. "I can't help but feel it beats the alternative."

The door opened again, and a wilted Anna Ramirez stumbled in. "_Oooh, Lawless.."_ she moaned, "You've had better had saved some for me."

"Gotcha," The Detective quickly poured a new cup. "Cream or sugar?"

"I take straight speed if you have it," the Latina gave a guilty grin. "Jus' plain, gracias."

"She-man!" Bradley grunted in passing, pounding his Kevlar vest Tarzan style.

"Yeah, Paltron's the only woman in the department allowed to take it like that," his partner Milton jibed. "and that's only because she can shave the chest hair with her laser vision." Lt. Gwen Paltron had a set of heartless, steely eyes straight out of a sharpshooter flick—and the range record to prove it. SWAT had been trying to woo her for years.

"Don't you two have something more important to do, like checking parking meters?" Lawless growled good-naturedly.

"Righto, Roge-o. We are out of here," The duo one-arm saluted with bravura and left, goose-stepping.

Ramirez had collapsed into the counter, sighing. Switching with Montoya for the night shift and MCU's work on _Stop the Violence_ had both taken their toll on her, her hair lank, face drawn, eyes doleful. _It couldn't be easy_, Lawless mused, _balancing those hours with three small children and a recent divorce…_

"Don't let 'em get to you Ramirez," he said lowly, trying to raise her spirits. Fred Milton and Eugene Bradley were great cops…albeit assholes. Their way of whistling in the dark was irreverence and rudeness to everyone and everything. The more offensive, the better. "They're just making that shit up to annoy you. Everyone who's been here _long_ enough knows Paltron just sucks the beans raw."

"She still does that?" Jim asked with a grimace.

Ramirez sputtered and snorted into her coffee. "You, you are just as bad as they are!"

"I was just kiddin' you," Lawless said kindly.

"I wasn't," Gordon stated. "She used to do that. It was disgusting."

The small woman shook her head with a sad smile. "She's speaking today, no? At the Campaign?"

"Yeah," Lawless chuckled, draining his mug. "This damn _Stop the Violence_ thing is going to kill us all, you know?"

Anna smiled again, shaking her head, but the light didn't quite reach her bloodshot eyes. _Oh, what the hell, _Lawless thought. _The poor woman's been up for almost 36 hours…_

"Oh, Anna," Jim Gordon's quiet voice pulled her back. "any problems with security on the night shift?"

She turned reluctantly at the door, looking wearily into his eyes. "No, Jim. Everything's went fine."

* * *

**09:55 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James and twenty-five year old Cameron Shaw sat stock still on the very edge of the white lambskin couch, not even daring to uncap their pens. The cameraman, Paul, stood awkwardly in front of the shimmering bay windows, keeping his hands tight around their equipment. _Even the effing floor is breakable_, they thought, studying the Venetian tile.

Maybe if they had worked for Gotham Galore or the Urban Scene Network they would have chatted candidly, making even their wait into a segment of the story. But Ms. James and Ms. Shaw were reporters from the local Channel 18 News, and their lives did not consist of toadying to celebrities, neither the national nor the local varieties. The highlight of their collective careers, to date, consisted of a personal interview with the governor's wife and a business dinner that had the Gotham City Knights also in attendance.

But _here?_

Dressed even in their newest, best professional suits and polished Prada shoes they felt strangely girlish and out of place. This penthouse was unreal, a fairy castle, and neither could fight down the feeling of excitement, turned nervousness, that _they _were actually _here_.

Rebecca fought a quick smirk. The Wayne Penthouse. If only her mother knew.

Cameron folded her notebook professionally, smoothing the sheet paper and fighting back the urge to even consider calling her former best friend, who was now dating _her _(former) fiancé, and asking the two of them to guess where she was. _That snotty little_ _daddy's girl princess_, she thought. _I bet she's been trying to get a peek at this place for years…_

The butler strode briskly back into the room, breaking both women from their thoughts. "Forgive me," he said with a slight bow. "Master Wayne will see you shortly." He hurriedly walked on, expertly balancing a heavy, food-laden tray in one arm. Remembering her college days as a night-shift waitress, Rebecca James watched with amusement—and some awe-as the water in the narrow rose vase did not slosh a drop, not even when the butler disappeared quickly around the corner.

Damn, was he _good_.

* * *

"Master Wayne," Alfred called through the oak-paneled doors. "I have two very anxious reporters in the drawing room. Apparently they have a ten o'clock appointment?"

There was no answer. Sighing, Alfred juggled the breakfast tray to rap on the door again. "Master Wayne?"

No answer, no flurry of movement. He really should not have expected it. He himself had already been asleep in the parlor for hours when Bruce stumbled off the Penthouse elevator the previous night…or early this morning. When this Batman nonsense had first begun, he had stayed up, all night, waiting anxiously for his employer's arrival. Their relationship went a lot deeper than mere family servant, he thought of young (but getting older) Bruce as not necessarily a son, but perhaps an erring nephew he had raised from childhood. He was still worried, of course—Bruce's work as Batman was as dangerous and as deadly as ever before, but the fact of the matter was that he himself was now closer to seventy than sixty, and his body just could not take the strain.

Not that he liked to admit it.

"You could've just gone to bed," Bruce had chided. "It would've been easier."

"Nonsense." He retorted. "And miss you coming in after curfew?" His body might be tiring, but his mind was as still as sharp as ever-something he prided himself on. Sodoku and crosswords, nearly every morning with the paper-Bruce had laughed at him, but didn't argue.

"Please don't ground me. Promise I won't do it again." Bruce had yawned and stretched, slicking back sweat-soaked hair with a devilish grin. It had been good to see him smile—at home. To the papers and the paparazzi he was still shallow playboy Bruce Wayne, squandering his riches away nearly as fast as he could make them. The real Bruce, the pensive, thoughtful, kind man he knew, had been silent and shadowed for nearly a year.

Rachel's death had been hard to bear. The healing would take time…

"Master Wayne? Reporters?" Alfred raised the timbre of his voice. "Master Wayne?"

And with that, the gold-gilt, double doors swung suddenly and dramatically open, shining sunlight streaming through as a white-robed, Armani boxer-clad celebrity billionaire Bruce Wayne strode out to general worship with great aplomb. "Ladies, ladies!" he called suavely to the awe-struck reporters, all thoughts of notepads and former boyfriends forgotten. "So sorry to keep you waiting!"

Alfred sighed deeply, straightening the tray in his arms and replacing the spilt rose back into its vase, following the blushing, awe-struck women and their cameraman for an interview in Bruce's very _bedroom_, mentally preparing himself to act the part of the doting, father-like servant.

After he rang the cook for three more trays, of course.

* * *

**10:06 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

Detective Aaron Lawless glanced up at the clock again. The Kid was now two hours late…and MCU's Lt. Paltron-his former partner—was pissed.

"You know, if he ever _does _show up," she said, slamming yet another thick file into a dilapidated metal filing cabinet. "just ask him to put his badge in my mailbox because I. Am. Firing. His. Ass. Oh, damn!" The drawer broke under the increasing weight, landing on her toes. "Piece of _shit!"_ She kicked the drawer, spewing papers across the linoleum. "Call him again. And tell Stacy I've got some papers for her to file..."

Tempers_,_ Lawless mused, were running short_._ What with the planning for _Stop the Violence_ and the clearing of the buildings surrounding Gotham City Plaza, no one had gotten enough sleep for the last several weeks. But the detective was suspicious that perhaps his old partner's bitchiness might have something to do with the fact that as a speaker for the event she was wearing heels and panty hose.

* * *

**11:14 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

Stony faces set, the two security guards lifted the laughing inmate by the armpits and dragged him from the mess hall. A jumpsuit clad corpse lay twitching and jumping on the floor under a pool of trays and slimed food. Only an inch of the fork handle could still be seen poking from under the right eye-lid. The face was covered in scarlet.

"C'mon, c'mon let's fight let's _fight_!" the Joker rushed the padded door, throwing himself against the walls, tearing at the door seam where his captors disappeared.

"_Batmaaaaan! Come on, give me the baddie batty Batman!"_

* * *

**11:23 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

The Kid's cell wasn't on. Every message went straight to voice mail. "It's Jimmy!" It was the thirtieth time he'd heard the beaming tones in the last three hours.

_Shit_.

Connolly was a rookie cop. Young. Inexperienced. In no ways inept but in many, naïve…it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City. _Jesus, Jimmy_, Lawless thought, _where the Hell are you?_

But the phone was either off or dead. Dead meant water. He tried to distract himself, laugh it off. _The Kid probably dropped it in the toilet,_ he thought with a brief grin.

But the waterlogged, decaying body of District Attorney Carl Finch floated to the surface of his mind and would not sink away.

* * *

**Incident Report**

**Patient #666 (Joker)**

**Mess Hall, 11:30 AM**

_Lunchtime brawl ending in unusual violence. Patient Gregory 'Madcap' Morrison air evacuated to Gotham Methodist Hospital, condition labeled critical, presenting with complete right enucleation and hemorrhaging. Witnesses say Joker responsible (More information on so called 'magic fork trick?' pending results of further investigation.). Fourteenth episode of violent outburst resulting in patient or caretaker injury documented in the past three days. Patient is believed to have suffered a minor relapse to habits of self-harm, hostility, and aggression. Removal to private care ward urgent. Recommended therapy: appeasement._

_All staff are reminded to use extreme precaution when approaching this patient. In light of future investigation, only doctors under supervision by security will be permitted to treat or enter patient room._

_Additional note: Patient Gregory Morrison was pronounced dead upon arrival to Gotham Methodist at 11:37 AM. Police informed, official investigation of staff negligence to be opened by District Attorney. All staff are to be fully cooperative with law officials. This incident is not to be discussed with members of the media._

_Signed: Dr. Harleen Quinzel_

* * *

**11:39 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

The door swung open and Aaron Lawless jumped up, expectant and hopeful.

"Ames," he said, his face and heart falling at the sight of his young wife, already dressed in burgundy scrubs. But he was a man, he was her goddamned husband, he was supposed to be strong. He kissed her cheek, feigning normalcy. "Babe, what are you doing here?"

Smiling, she plunked down a glass baking dish filled with caramelized onions and two loaves of French bread. It was one of her husband's favorite meals, and his partner absolutely raved about it…

"Well, I figured you guys would be so busy with the campaign you'd forget to eat, so I just came by…" Amy Lawless' voice trailed off as she looked into her husband's eyes. "Aaron, what's wrong?" she laid a gentle hand on his arm. Something was wrong, off, missing…Suddenly it struck her.

"Aaron, where's _Jimmy?"_ there was an edge of panic in her voice.

He sighed heavily. "That's just it, babe…no one knows."

* * *

**11:47 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne," Rebecca James concluded, offering her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"No, the pleasure was all mine," Bruce assured her. "And you should call me Bruce. Or sugar. I also answer to honey."

The reporter laughed, rolling her eyes. _Damn, what a chauvinistic pig, but didn't it feel good?_ "Perhaps some other time."

"Thanks again," Cameron Shaw offered her hand in turn. Wayne took the proffered palm and made as though to shake it, but at the last second raised it to his lips and kissed it, staring directly into her eyes.

All froze.

For a moment, both women were completely silent in disbelief.

Seconds wore on. Wayne's mouth twitched. Rebecca bit her lips. Shaw burst into a fit of girlish giggles. Wayne began to chuckle, and Shaw's giggles turned into all out laughter as her face flushed bright a hot, bright pink.

Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James threw her curly head back and snorted hysterically until tears streamed down her face.

"You two should stay for lunch."

"Oh, we couldn't—" Rebecca began.

"Come on," Wayne wheedled pleasantly, "I've already got the cook working on it…he'd be broken hearted if you two stood him up."

The two women exchanged glances. They really shouldn't, they really shouldn't even _consider_…but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, for God's sake! Neither wanted to back down. Friends though they were, neither wanted the other to stay…and yet as nervous as they were, neither wanted the other to leave.

"Well," Cameron began reluctantly, but Wayne cut her off.

"Excellent! Now I can give you ladies the grand tour…" And with that, he was off, explaining the history behind the Baroque masterpiece on the wall above their heads. Finishing that, he grabbed their arms, leading them onto the next exhibit. With one more helpless, bemused glance, the two women tore their eyes away from each other and listened with rapt attention.

_Oh, what the hell… It couldn't hurt, could it?_

In that moment, neither Bruce Wayne, Rebecca James nor Cameron Shaw could possibly know that this one small, selfish decision would save their lives.

* * *

**12:00 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

"Well," the psychiatric intern said, sitting down across from her disfigured patient, spreading out his multiple files on the tabletop. Quinzel was busy dealing with the DA, and the Joker (no one referred to him as #666, even though official policy was _never _to use his chosen alias—it gave his sociopath personality too much control over the situation, working contradictory to the rehabilitation process) had been left to her. She wished he was in restraints…or that security was actually in the room instead of outside the door. Victor Zsasz had strangled one of her predecessors through the bars of a holding cell, after all…while handcuffed.

But again, heightening security over routine basal measures would only give the Joker the illusion of control. Either way, they were fucked.

"You've certainly made a mess of things. Gregory Morrison is dead."

"Now ain't that _tragic_, dollface?" The Joker leered.

"Your behavior is completely unacceptable, and your lack of respect for human life atrocious. I am putting you in solitary confinement-"

"Aw, come on dollface!" he wheedled. "You uh, you can do better than _that! _Confinement is so, uh, pre-dic-ta-ble and uh, _boring_…and I don't like being bored. Cause, uh, ya know, _ya know_ what's gonna happen: I'll uh, throw a fit, and I'll hurt myself. Some high-minded do-gooder will see fit to come in and uh, _stop_ me and in my uh,…volatile and so vul-ner-ab-le stat-tuh I'll uh…_maim _him. _Then_-oh, and here's the _real _uh, kicker: you'll try to uh, restrain me-_again!_" he petered off into a fit of giggles.

"_And then the grand finale!"_ he shouted, making sizzling noises and gesturing fireworks with his excited hands. "By the time it's uh, finished I'll be drugged on the floor and three members or your security will uh, resign, and the rest will demand _raises_."

The psychiatrist blinked.

"_Big. Fat. Raises_," he enunciated, peering at her owlishly from under his furrowed brows. "Do ya really got the grant money for all _that_, dollface? I've uh, I've heard the taxpayers are getting pretty uh, pretty pre-ti-cu-_lar _about paying for your uh, _hospitality_. Wouldn't it just be easier to give me a uh, _TV?_ With uh, cable?" he smacked his lips, leaning forward across the table towards her. "That way I uh, won't be…_bored?_"

"You want a TV?" she asked, numbed.

"I uh, I heard there was uh, a _parade_. And gee, Doc, I just _love_ a parade. I like the balloons, ya see? I like it when they go uh, _pop_."

_A minor relapse…fourteen violent episodes in three days…removal urgent. Therapy: appeasement._ Quinzel had signed the orders herself. The intern gulped slowly. The Joker wanted a TV with cable? The staff were terrified, the patients restless. The gates to Arkham were swarmed every morning with angry protesters calling for the Joker's blood_. _But the Joker was insane. Couldn't be held accountable for his actions.

Still, no one deserved to die with a stainless steel fork stuck through their eye socket…

He wanted a TV to watch the parade?

He would get one.

* * *

**12:03 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

"Dude, man, you _have_ to talk to him," Bradley sat on Lawless' desk, interrupting the Detective's worried vigil. "One, I feel my manhood shrinking just being classified as the same gender…" he crammed his mouth with Amy's homemade onion dip. "and two, he's fucking lucky not to be _dead_."

"He's here?" Lawless asked in surprise, hurling his chair back and standing abruptly.

"Yeah," Milton said, helping himself in turn. "Just explain that Gay Pride was _last_ week, but _this _week we're supposed to be wearing our _Stop the Violence_ T-shirts-"

"Jesus Kid, where the Hell have you been?" Lawless barked, finally catching sight of his young partner across the crowded atrium. "You're almost four hours late, no call, no message-I thought you were fucking _dead_."

He pulled him into a rough embrace, breathing a silent thanks to whatever powers that had kept the Kid safe.

"No. Just half-drowned," Jimmy Connolly's small mouth gave a frustrated, half-hearted smile. "And maybe a bit scalded."

"Christ," Aaron said, holding him at arm's length and taking a better look. Yes. The Kid's shirt was…appalling. He was still in his street clothes and Chuck Taylor's, his uniform in a suit bag over his shoulder, his dripping dress shoes tied together and dangling from one boyish hand. But mostly he was wet: soaking wet and stained with what looked like terribly cheap coffee. "What happened?"

"Just a social experiment gone a little awry, that's all."

"Social experiment?"

"No call because coffee," Jimmy tossed him the dead phone, "and coffee because T-shirt," he nodded downwards to the brilliantly purple shirt emblazoned with a cartoon gorilla and the words Grape Ape. "And coffee ruined uniform, which I had just picked up from the dry-cleaners…to which I returned, ago the lateness, and thusly no calling, and hence; my appearance."

He took a deep, dramatic bow. "Sorry I'm late."

"Jimmy!" Amy Lawless' voice rang. "Jimmy!" Aaron's wife flung her arms around her husband's young partner, planting a kiss on his flushing face. "Thank God you're all right-we were so worried—you're soaking _wet!"_

He sighed, "Long story."

Lawless clapped a hand on the Kid's head, messing his dark, matted hair. "Next time, call, for Christ's sake, okay? And don't ever wear that stupid shirt again. You're lucky coffee's the worst that happened."

"Why?" the Kid asked, blinking and wiping wet locks and drops of coffee out of his eyes.

"Number one," Milton said, unable to resist, "It makes you look like a flamboyant homosexual-"

"Ignore him," Aaron sent a glare over the Kid's shoulder. "He's an asshole. But Kid, honestly, do you know _who_ you look like? There's a reason that was on the clearance rack, Kid. No one wears purple in Gotham anymore," Aaron said lowly, his gravelly tones darkening. "Not since last year."

"There was a girl in the clinic last April that got beat up on her way home from school by a neighbor's _mother _just for wearing a bright purple sweatshirt," Amy Lawless cut in quietly. "It's not a good idea."

"What, you want to stop wearing a color just because the Joker wore it?" A few nervous heads turned in their direction. Amy looked around warily.

"It's not about what I want, it's about staying safe," Lawless said darkly.

"Can you really blame people, Jimmy?" Amy asked nervously. "After all he did, do you really want to remind people of that? There's hardly anyone in Gotham that didn't lose somebody or know someone who lost somebody…why would you want to purposefully bring that up?"

"That's insane," Jimmy argued, juggling his shoes awkwardly as he gestured. "You guys are completely missing the point. You can't make a decision on what color to wear just because some crazy madman wore it…I mean, that's just giving him control. It's caving in. Today's _Stop the Violence_, right? "

Lawless raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.

"So supposedly we're launching this whole city-wide campaign against crime, violence, drugs, and stuff, essentially we're banding together to tell people like the Joker they can't mess with us…"

"Jimmy—" Amy began worriedly. Aaron's partner was around the house enough that the thirty year old RN considered him almost like an erring, awkward little brother. Not that Jimmy ever did anything necessarily bad…he was just…_naïve._ And now he sounded like Brian, Brian what's-his-name. She had walked in on Aaron viewing that terrible tape, and the image still haunted her.

_We don't have to be afraid of people like you._

_But you do, Brian. You really do…_

"But if I can't wear purple down the street safely with him locked away, doesn't that just mean people like him have already won? If we have to give up a whole region of the spectrum so our lives can go back to normal, they really _haven't _gone back to normal at all. It only proves we're so _afraid_ of them, so _used_ to the violence, that all we've really done is become numb. _Stop the Violence_ isn't going to work unless people are willing to admit it's there. That's all I'm saying," He shrugged, dropping the shoes and bending to pick them up. "And I guess that's why I wore this stupid shirt. Just to see."

There was silence. Aaron Lawless nodded slowly, Amy's eyes darting nervously between her husband and his partner.

Even Milton and Bradley had nothing to say.

* * *

**12:05 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

One hour, fifty-five minutes and counting. _Just enough time to grab lunch with the family…._

"Tanaka! What are you doing here?" Jenkins the new network boss shouted from the back of the Channel 18 News van. "You're supposed to be out covering the streets!"

"My shift ended five minutes ago! James is supposed to be up!" Trisha Tanaka cried back, sliding out of her heels and massaging her toes. Her shift was done. They had agreed on that. She would get the afternoon off, get to see her six year-old niece Gracie say the pledge of allegiance for Governor Richards. The rest of the family were sitting with her proudly, went out to breakfast, showered her with congratulations, kisses, hugs and gifts…Trisha's parents immigrated from Japan eighteen years ago, and had adopted their new culture as their own, changing their names and insisting on English only, even in the house. To see their only grandchild receive such a privilege had been an honor in deed.

Harsh words had been spoken when Trisha announced reluctantly she couldn't be there. In frustrated tears she related the story to James and Shaw…to not show up would be to shame her family. But to take the day off, she would lose her job.

"_What time's Gracie's thing?" Rebecca had asked._

_"Two, or about two. Whenever the Governor gets there-"_

"_Then don't sweat it." She said with a winning smile. "I've got an interview that morning, but I can be there before then. Say…noon? Don't worry. I'll cover for you."_

But James never came. For ten minutes Trisha looked for her bouncing red curls through the crowd, hoping that it had been a hold up with the traffic, a minor delay…

In another two, she was back in her heels, standing in front of the camera wearing her famous, winning smile. She had again become _Good morning, Gotham!'s _ 'vivacious little Trisha Tanaka' of channel 18 news.

On the outside.

On the inside, child immigrant, afraid of her family's harsh reaction, worried what Gracie, what her sister would think…afraid her fiancé off in grad school in California had already forgotten her, disappointed, let down and crying with her studio make-up running in tracks down her blotchy face Trisha Tanaka stood surrounded by a sea of thousands of people…

She had never felt so alone in her life.

* * *

**12:10 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

"Master Wayne!" Alfred said in surprise, finding Bruce hurriedly dressing. "I beg your pardon, I had thought you'd left—"

Bruce grinned. "Not while guests are still over, Alfred. Sudoku's not working as well as you'd thought."

The Butler frowned. Master Wayne was due to make an appearance in twenty minutes at the Legacy. He had scheduled the appointment himself…Thomas' foundation built the Gotham Public Transit twenty years ago. Gave grants to Inner City schools. Funded kidney, heart, and liver transplants…

"You are, I assume, asking the guests to leave so as to arrive to the Legacy on time?" He asked lightly. Surely, surely for the Legacy he could give up this playboy façade….

Bruce shook his head, slicking gel through his wiry hair. "Nope," he grinned at the Butler's reflection in the lighted mirror. "I've just found a fantastic and very visual excuse to be fashionably late."

"Master Wayne, I would think that on a day of this significance you would at least shelve this arrogance and pay respect to your father—"

"Whoa, Alfred!" Bruce said, turning from tying his tie in the mirror. "I'm not being arrogant-"

Frustration. Anger. Alfred's voice shook like his clenched, whitening hands. "The Foundation was important to your father, sir. The transit, the surgeries…the least you could do is oblige his memory by showing up at the Legacy!"

Bruce snapped his cufflinks in silence, averting his eyes from Alfred's pale, twisted face. He sighed deeply, still staring down, folding down the ends of his shirtsleeves. "You know," he began, his voice dropping low. "I didn't know how to tell you this…but I've wanted to. I just…didn't know how to say it."

He turned, and looked into the eyes of the man who had raised him and who loved him like a father. Anger he could bear, but he could not stand to see disappointment in those eyes.

"I am _not_ my father, Alfred, and I won't pretend to be. But if Rachel's death taught me anything it's that his work, that the Foundation…is the most important thing that Wayne Enterprises will ever give Gotham, that _I _can give Gotham…it's tangible, it's hope. "

The butler was silent, his eyes wet.

"Someday Gotham won't need Batman—and I, I'll have to be willing to accept that. But She'll always need the Foundation, the Legacy. So don't confuse this, this mask-this disguise-with who I am. Gotham _can't_ know me for who I am…they have to believe I'm the drunken billionaire who burned down his own house, remember?"

The Butler had spent seven long years waiting to hear word from his young charge, seven years in solidarity, seven years where he alone in the world had not given up on Bruce Wayne as a lost cause. "You never gave up on me, did you?" Bruce had asked.

"Never," had been his response then. It still was.

"I understand, sir," Alfred said lightly, "And what better way than to show up two hours late to every social function, even your own?" It was an apology, of sorts.

"_Especially _my own," Bruce laughed, breaking the tension with a sad smile. "And where would I be without my obligatory arm candy?"

"Arm candy, sir?" Alfred asked, bewildered.

"Babes, Alfred," Bruce straightened his silk tie with an impish grin. "Babes."

* * *

**12:13 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

Aaron was damn proud of him. He really shouldn't be all that surprised-with what the Kid had confided in him about his family life and growing up…. He wasn't as naïve or stupid as he appeared with his soft, boyishly innocent features and smile…

But the no calling had worried him. Scared him. Sickened him. Over the last year Jimmy had become more than a partner, more than a friend, he was, was almost like-

Like a son.

If Jess had wanted kids when the first got married, they would be Jimmy's age by now. Aaron had wanted them. But she was young, a college graduate, ready to start her career and wait on the family…he was starting his first year of medical school, had a long road ahead, wouldn't be there for her, for kids…Years dragged on, then things got rough…and Aaron's only consolation through the long, ugly divorce was thank god there had been no kids involved. Kids and divorce just didn't belong together.

The Detective was twenty-three when he was first married, thirty-two when he divorced…

He met Amy three years later, and married her the next. He had a young son at home, Ian, three years old. He had resigned himself to being nearly sixty when Ian went to college…

But Jimmy was, well, Jimmy was _Amy_. Forgiveness. A second chance, a new start.

After years of questioning, drinking, wondering where the hell it had all gone wrong, if he could ever make it right, if there was a God and if He cared or could forgive, Amy found him, and he knew instantly he had been given another chance at life and love. And again with Jimmy. The DUI that took his medical licensure so long ago also took the lives a family of four…yet the pressing weight of guilt, the questions, the wondering all disappeared in those dark, wet, smiling eyes. Answers. Vindication. Forgiveness.

"I'm….I'm impressed, Kid," Lawless finally said, as Milton and Bradley reluctantly nodded their heads in agreement. "But next time you decide to make a stand on something, consider doing it in a way that might not kill you."

"Please?" Amy's timid voice put in.

Jimmy shrugged again, giving a tiny laugh. "I figured people'd just yell at me. I had no idea women would be like, dumping coffee on my head."

"Yeah, well, another one's about to if you don't get changed quick," Bradley mumbled. "Paltron's on a roll today and she's already pissed at you."

"Which isn't a fun situation given the fact you two are driving to the Legacy together." Milton stated casually, mouth stuffed with bread. "Or had you forgotten?"

Jimmy paled. "Right."

* * *

**12:20 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

It was a beautiful day in Gotham City: sunny, balmy, just a hint of wind. A more perfect day couldn't have been picked for the opening of Gotham's _Stop the Violence_ Campaign, a new youth-oriented program for inner city schools targeting the rising crime rate and teen homicide. The youth of Gotham were its shining stars, its hope for a better future. With better education funds, anger management counseling, vocational training and college scholarships offered through the Wayne Legacy Foundation, _Stop the Violence_ would give Gotham's future a viable chance of making their future a peaceful, prosperous one, bringing them together across their differences to form a closer-knit community build on respect and tolerance…

Or so newscasters said, over and over and over again as he flipped through the channels, trying to find the right camera angle. That wasn't what interested him, the respect and community and tolerance psychobabble-he had heard enough of that at Arkham. But the enthusiasm did interest him, oh yes. The program would uh, _bring them together_. And Channel 18 had uh, _such_ a nice view of the Foundation's glass and steel spire…

A bored grin stole over his scarred features as he smacked his fleshy, disfigured lips. "Afternoon, _officers_," He addressed the statue-like guards standing outside his cell. They said nothing, not even bothering to turn their heads. For over a year now the guards had stood outside his door. At first they had been jumpy, willing playthings, easy to startle and scare, but he had long grown bored of their indifference.

And he would have newer, better toys soon enough. He smiled devilishly, then turned back to the television, dark eyes narrowing in anticipation.

So far, the campaign—and _the plan_—were working.

_Stop the Violence_ had already brought them together. Now thirty-five thousand teachers, parents, community workers, ordinary citizens and students lined the streets and sidewalks leading to the Plaza, shouting themselves hoarse as the parade led by marching bands from local high schools wound its way to the Wayne Legacy Foundation's Community Center, a seventy-four storey spire spiraling gracefully into Gotham's skyline. The cheering grew louder through the speakers as the front of the parade came into view.

One hour, forty minutes. And Counting.

* * *

**12:23 EST**

**Rachel D. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

"Alright kiddos, play nice now," Aaron Lawless chuckled. "Be home by curfew. Any later and you're grounded."

Gwen Paltron rolled her eyes at her former partner, opening the driver's side door of the squad car. "Keys," she barked, and Lawless' young partner tossed them to her, cowed.

"No drugs, no sex, no R rated movies," Bradley chorused. "It's a first date, remember?"

"No sex?" Paltron asked, surprising all present by trading her take-no-shit-one-eyebrow-raised expression for feigned disappointment. "Damn. I'm sorry kid. But this just isn't gonna work out. I'm so _lonely_, and your daddy's got so many _rules_…I just don't want to get hurt again."

Bradley bust up laughing as Jimmy Connolly sputtered and shot Lawless one last, desperate look across the parking lot. The Detective waved grimly, and the Kid buckled his seatbelt, head falling back against the seat in resignation.

Doors slammed and the sleek black cruiser pealed out of the lot with only an hour and thirty-seven minutes to spare, an identical grin plastered on both the officers' faces. "Dude, that was fucking hilarious. I didn't expect _her_ to join in."

"Yeah, well, there's just one problem," On closer inspection, Lawless' grin was forced. "I think the Kid's got a major crush on her."

"Oh, fuck," Bradley said after a moment.

The detective shrugged. "It's probably for the best-"

"No, it's just that…damn. That slick little _shit_. And to think we just gave him a hundred bucks to ask her out."

Lawless looked at him almost pityingly. "I wasn't joking."

Bradley grinned. "Neither was I." It was a long-standing unit tradition. And the best waste of a hundred dollars you could ask for. The Lt. must've discovered time travel because Shakespeare, Bradley had long ago decided, wrote _the Taming of the Shrew_ only after being spurned by her for high school prom.

* * *

**12:47 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

"Going live, Trish," the camera swung to face her as the smile froze on her handsome Asian features. "Five, four, three, two-"

"Good afternoon Gotham!" Trisha Tanaka's bright voice came through the microphone. "I'm Trisha Tanaka and we're here at Gotham Plaza where the Governor is scheduled to appear for the opening of Gotham's new _Stop the Violence_ campaign, just seven days before Gotham City Public Schools will open." Behind her, the cheering swelled as the white government limo pulled into view, flanked, followed, and led by dozens of GCPD mopeds and cruisers. Their sirens were blazing a happy note, blending with the deafening roar of the gathered throng, while a thousand pounds of confetti were released from the skyscrapers surrounding the Plaza.

"It looks like New Year's Eve in New York City!" she gushed. "The excitement is that contagious—" here she shoved the microphone into the face of a fifteen-year-old girl. "You've got a great view from here! What can you tell our audience stuck at home?"

"Oh, my god!" The girl jumped up and down in excitement, a wide, white grin on her dark face. "I can't believe I'm actually here! _I'm on Good Morning Gotham! I'm on TV!"_

"What's your name?"

"Shania Gibbets! And I'm a youth ambassador from Big Brothers Big Sisters!"

Trisha turned to what could only be the girl's mother. "You must be very proud."

"Oh, I am," the woman said loudly, over calls of Hi mom shrieks of Trisha I love you. "And I'm so glad to have a daughter who's interested in doin' things, makin' a difference." Shania leaned her braided and beaded head back into her mom's shoulder, grinning. "Not every parent gets blessed tha' way, ya know?" the middle-aged mother kissed the back of her daughter's head, squeezing her shoulders. "I be very proud of this here girl."

* * *

**13:25 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

Cameron Shaw had never been so amazed in her life. A seven-course meal-for _lunch?_ She knew Wayne was ridiculously rich…but the thought of having a gourmet chef specializing in nearly any regional cuisine in the world only one phone call away was simply mind blowing.

Rebecca James set her glass down carefully. She recognized Waterford crystal when she saw it, and knew there would be no way in hell she'd ever be able to replace this glass. How odd, how fickle was it, she thought, staring into it's sparkling facets, that some men could afford meaningless trifles for more than she made in a month's time, while in the same city there were families that didn't always have food on the table…

It was unfair. Churlish. Arbitrary.

"…and if you enjoyed this you really must cover our third quarter business luncheon. We've just closed a deal with Nataki Industries, and in celebration we're having _Mamoru Chiba himself_ prepare the food-onsite—we're still working on installing the kitchen—and it's the most amazing Japanese cuisine you'll taste in the US…and I should know. Last year I took him up on a bet and flew to LA, New York, Frisco and Chicago, and in the end I had to forfeit a case of excellent Bordeaux. Somewhat of a loss, but an educational experience well worth it."

Shaw laughed pleasantly. She had a glass of wine with lunch, and was relaxing and enjoying the atmosphere quite nicely. Why not? This was the only day she would be sitting with _People_ Magazine's #1 richest and most eligible bachelor, eating outside a hundred and four storeys above the ground on a marble veranda overlooking Gotham City. She could even make a story out of it, perhaps sending it to _Gotham Galore_ or even _People_ itself…

"Have you always been such a connoisseur of traditional Japanese cuisine, Mr. Wayne," James asked with mock interest, leaning across the white linen tablecloth. "Or would you consider your extensive knowledge a more recent acquisition?" She asked lightly, but her eyes held just a hint of irony…and perhaps anger?

_Touché_. Bruce toasted her with his glass, continuing his discussion. Inside, he was secretly impressed. James had a good head on her shoulders and just a little grit,something he had missed this last year. _Rachel had-_

He leaned his head back and drained the glass, forcing the memories from his mind.

"It's too bad Trisha couldn't be here," Shaw said. "She'd be able to tell you a thing or two about Japanese cooking."

"Trisha?" Bruce asked.

"As in Trisha Tanaka," Shaw flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'm sure you're familiar. She's another reporter friend of ours-"

The Waterford glass slipped through James' slender fingers, shattering on the marble tile. "Oh, shit! Oh, I'm sorry!" She said, flushing and standing quickly.

Bruce waved her off. "It's nothing, really. Nothing."

"No, we, well, I have to go. I told Trish I'd cover for her—"

She looked desperately at Wayne. "What time is it?"

He rolled back his sleeve, checking his Rolex. "One thirty," He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry if I've kept your ladies too long. Please, if you have a prior engagement.."

"Beck, there's no point in going now," Cameron said timidly. "Gracie's thing's at two. There's no way you'd get there in time—"

"Gracie?" Wayne asked.

"Her niece"" James snapped. "She's saying the pledge or something for Governor Richards and the whole family's supposed to be there. God, I feel like such an ass-!"

"You have to be there by two, correct?" Wayne asked, standing suddenly and very businesslike. "I might be able to accommodate you-"

James rolled her green eyes, in no mood for anymore playboy bullshit. "Sorry. But I don't think even the '_incredible_ _Mr. Bruce Wayne_ ' can do anything to fix this."

A clever smile twitched on his thin lips and he raised an eyebrow. "We'll see. I have a phone call to make."

* * *

**13:32 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

"And there you have it, folks. Randy Roberts, retired history teacher," Trisha finished her brief interview with the grey-haired man with a sweep of her bangs behind her ears. Her fingers brushed the headset, and the diamond earrings Micheal had sent for her birthday-

"Trish-" she heard in her earpiece. "The real story, if you please…" The voice of Jenkins the network boss droned in a bored tone. She rolled her wide, slanted eyes and turned away from the gathered crowd towards the school of motorcycles and cruisers getting nearer and nearer. The real story was these people, this hope…not this display of firepower and security put on by Gotham's finest.

But the network paid the bills…and the bills paid Micheal's tuition, and the faster he got through school they could get married…

And she could actually stand up and say no to this job that made her miss Gracie's speech. Trisha loved TV 18, loved her boss, Chris Holden, fiercely…but she'd wanted to be a journalist, not a _celebrity_, damnit! Her family would understand someday…but Gracie wouldn't. Gracie only would know that Aunt Trisha loved her job more than Aunt Trisha loved her…and she'd be right. Trisha wanted Micheal, wanted to married and have kids of her own—

She blinked back tears, and began improvising chattily about the Governor's arrival.

* * *

**13:40 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Everything going fine?" the gruff growl of Aaron Lawless' voice came in his ear.

Commissioner Gordon turned to face him, a strained look on his weathered face. "So far. Did you ever get a hold of your partner?" The Commissioner had left the office for the Tracking Room around nine.

"Yeah. He showed up around twelve or so. Funny story, really. You'd like it."

"Twelve?" the Commissioner's eyes widened. "Is he in the habit of running late?" He asked weakly. The problem with hiring younger officers was you took your risks. Fresh blood in the system stood well against the corruption, it was true, but for many rookies it was the first time they had to be responsible for themselves or their time…and not all of them made it through. And Connolly was young.

Almost too young.

"Nah. He's usually damn punctual. That's what had me worried. Turns out he spent the morning at the dry cleaners trying to get his uniform re-cleaned," Lawless chuckled. "Some YWCA support group got a hold of him and drenched him in Starbucks_. Twice."_

"Do I even want to ask?" Jim said, watching the parade unfold on the surveillance screens, glaring like some grotesque, black and white, flickering compound eye.

Lawless pulled up a chair next to him, sitting down backwards with his arms crossed over the backrest. "Kid decides it's _Stop the Violence_ day, right? So he walks to work wearing a goddamn purple shirt just to see how people would react...

* * *

**13:42 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

"Oh my God," James cried. "Oh my God!" She pressed her long fingers over her gaping mouth, laughing in girlish excitement as the _Hellride _descended down towards her. The helicopter's blades whirred overhead, sending her long red curls furling back, her skirt whipping tight as pantyhose against her slim legs.

Cameron Shaw wiped wind-whipped tears from her amazed, open eyes, her mouth hanging open and slack as the sleek, black chopper landed noiselessly on the pad in front of them.

"Ladies," Wayne called over the rush of wind and the whirring, clacking motor, "I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine-" The sliding door let out a pneumonic PSSST, revealing a spacious, black leather interior. "All aboard!" Wayne cried gallantly, climbing into the cabin, reaching back to aid the two laughing, gaping friends aboard with a strong arm.

"Mind if I come along?" Paul Binkowski ran across the pad, carrying the heavy camera. "For some aerial shots?"

"Sure thing!" Wayne called, unbuckling his belt to aid the bumbling, aging cameraman into the cabin. "All set?" he turned to the Captain, an excited, boyish grin etched across his features. Eighteen minutes, and counting. "_And here. We._ _GO!"_

From the Parlor, Alfred watched through the open bay windows as the _Hellride_ lifted gracefully off, veering down and South across the city's Skyline. He shook his white head with a small smile. _Arm candy, indeed…_

Even without the women, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was about to make the entrance of a lifetime.

* * *

**13:45 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

"C'mon, c'mon let's go let's _go_…" the guards looked at each other curiously, watching their charge's newest antics. Ashen faced, trembling, wide eyed and muttering the inmate known as the Joker paced desperately, eyes darting back and forth between the wall clock and the TV. Fifteen minutes and counting.

A caged animal. Trapped. Pacing.

Waiting to be loosed.

* * *

**13:49 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

" 'And I guess that's why I wore this shirt. Just to see,'" Lawless finished his story, smiling grimly.

Gordon set his coffee down, a smug, sincere smile stretching across his strained face, easing the lines of worry away. He shook his head, chuckling silently, the grin growing broader and broader. He brought a hand to his mouth, still shaking his head. It had been over a year since the Batman's disappearance, a year since the Commissioner had felt so…

So understood.

"He gets it," Jim Gordon said after a short silence. "He _really_ gets it."

"Yeah," Lawless conceded. "He can be a bit…naive, at times. But once you get down to it, he's a damn good Kid."

Gordon smiled. "I was nervous hiring him, you know? One hundred and sixty-seven positions open and he applies for _all _of them. I couldn't _not_ give him an interview…" his voice trailed away, eyes drawn back to the activity on the monitors. "I'm glad you told me. Remind me to buy him dinner sometime."

Lawless chuckled, his eyes wandering over the surveillance of _Stop the Violence_. The crowd was waving enthusiastically, confetti falling past the cameras…but something was still off. Wrong. He thought again of Jimmy, remembering his own panic from this morning: _it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City_

"I don't like it," Lawless mused aloud, leaning in to study the television closely. "The people are excited, but the cops are nervous," he pointed to the screen. "Look."

Gordon nodded in agreement. "We all knew it would be a risk. But it's a risk worth taking, Detective," he smiled, the image of a coffee-soaked, baby-faced cop stumbling across the marble GCPD shield of the entryway, four hours late…Connolly had understood. They couldn't back down, couldn't live their lives in fear. This parade was a slap in the face to the remaining criminals skulking leaderless and powerless in the drains and rot of Gotham. He gestured to the excitement of the throng. "For the first time in years, this city has something to root for, something to give them _hope_."

"Other than the Batman, you mean," Lawless said lowly.

"Well, yes," Gordon agreed, maybe too quickly. "We can only hope this doesn't end up like that fiasco."

"It's been what, a year?" the detective mused. "And we still haven't caught him?"

"Yes," Gordon sighed, spirits falling. A year since the disappearance of the Dark Knight. Never in contact, perhaps sighted sporadically, but never confirmed."A year. We're working on—"

Lawless cut him off. "Say what you will in front of the press, Commissioner. A lot of us have been thinking, and we have our own theory of how Dent may have died."

For a moment, Gordon stared at him, completely emotionless. " I have no idea what you're talking about," he began. "But it would be amusing to hear those _theories_…at a later time." Under a calm exterior, his heart had quickened. A rough, gravelly voice, the right height, right build…

_Was it just possible-? _he wondered. _Could the Batman be one of their own?_

Lawless nodded slowly, one eyebrow raised, then returned his gaze to the screen. TV 18, Gotham City News, vivacious little Trisha Tanaka standing in Gotham Plaza, positively beaming.

* * *

**13:51 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Nine minutes and counting. She threw herself into the job, mustering all the cheer and animation she could, fighting back thoughts of Gracie's disappointed, crying eyes. To the audience, she had never been more charming.

"Alright, well there you have it," Trisha turned back towards the camera, standing next to the small Latina. "One of Gotham's future stars, Consuela Chavez!" She looked over her shoulder, still gauging the distance between her camera shot and the Governor's slowly approaching cavalcade. She returned to the crowd. There: a large group of city cops, standing almost at attention in military formation, probably about to be decorated….This would make a great segment, a human-interest side about Gotham's civil service workers.

And there. There in the front row. A face no one in Gotham could ever mistake.

"And how do you feel about the _Stop the Violence_ campaign?" She thrust the microphone and a small hand into the startled face of a young officer at the front of the ranks.

"Who, me?" He squinted dark eyes at her, trying to hear and be heard over the deafening roar of the crowd. "I think it's a great idea!"

"What's your name, officer?" she was practically shouting now.

"Jimmy," his mild voice was distorted by the yelling, "Jimmy Connolly!"

"Connolly!" a sharp voice barked, "You can flirt with the reporter later!" The blonde pixie to his left stepped forward, pulling him back into formation.

"And you are—" Trisha began, but was cut off.

"That's Lt. Paltron," The officer identified as Jimmy Connolly shouted. "She's my boss-"

"_Connolly!"_

"Yes sir! I mean ma'am! Er…Lt!" His face turned a bright pink, and he gave the reporter a hasty, apologetic smile as he snapped back in line. The pixie rolled steely blue eyes to the heavens, but didn't speak again. Trisha laughed and flashed the camera a winning smile, the afternoon sun bathing her face a bright, glowing gold.

Behind her, the Governor's limo had just pulled into view.

* * *

**13:52 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Bet he enjoyed that," Milton noted.

"Who?" Lawless asked.

"Connolly. That chick's got great tits."

Gordon cleared his throat and shot him a glare as Renee Montoya walked by the open door. "Do you mind?"

Lawless just chuckled. "Nope. The Kid's only got eyes for one woman. He's absolutely smitten."

Gordon smiled in spite of himself… it _was _nice to take a short break from the worry and the strain. They had gone over security a thousand times in the last few months, cleared the buildings…but most importantly the Joker was still in isolation in Arkham, and no one had stepped up to take his place. And somewhere, unmasked, unknown, the Batman was still watching, waiting…A little more of a year ago, for Loeb's funeral, they would have had to call in the National Guard just to have a parade. And yet today, thirty-five thousand people were gathered in defiance of the crime that ran rampant through Gotham City. Dent had been right-it was always darkest before the dawn.

There was hope. There was change. Dent's death—the Batman's sacrifice—had united the people of Gotham City, their faith rewarded.

"Who is she?"

"You don't know?" Lawless teased.

"He's never mentioned her to me," Milton pouted.

Lawless shrugged. "That's because you're an asshole, and you've taken every possible chance to publicly humiliate him since day one. But he _is _my partner. I guess it's natural I'd notice some things that you two drips don't."

"In case _you_ hadn't noticed, I'm in charge of a police force in a city so corrupt Las Vegas called in to give up its title. I don't have time to brief every officer in this building on their love life," Gordon countered, taking a sip of now tepid coffee. "Do I know her?" he asked kindly.

The detective grinned, nodding towards the scene on the monitor, the two officers in question still visible behind Trisha Tanaka's latest interviewee. "Look no further."

"_Paltron!?"_ Milton spewed coffee all down the monitor. "Is he _nuts_?"

Gordon chuckled and shook his head, knowing he'd been had. "Nice try, Lawless."

Lawless threw his hands up. "I just know what I see. The Kid talks a hundred miles an hour, but if she's around he's dead quiet. I think he's got a crush on her. Bad."

Milton waved him off, still wiping coffee from the security screen with a soft, non-abrasive rag. "And that could have nothing to do with the fact she's our boss and she scares him shitless?"

But he went unheeded, Lawless' retort dying and expression sobering as he noticed Gordon's face harden as he gazed solemnly into the monitor, taking another long, slow sip of coffee. Connolly was his partner now, but for years he had worked with Paltron, like the Commissioner himself. He was proud of her, proud of both his partners for being selected for this honor. Her promotion was long overdue…

"She's a good cop," Lawless reassured lowly. "You've done a good thing."

"I know," there was pain in that look, and Gordon didn't seem convinced. They had a history, and what exactly happened between them Lawless had never asked. But there was something there, a wall, a wedge, that had driven them apart. The Commissioner was the unsung hero cop of Gotham, a poor knight whose armour didn't shine bright enough to attract attention, but still he hated corruption and scandal with a vengeance. Aaron liked to believe his new commander had always been this upright. He hated mulling if this man, too, had something dark and disgusting to hide…

_She's a good cop_, Gordon mused to himself. But the gnawing, dreading doubt wouldn't leave. He trusted the Batman because deep down inside, Gordon believed that the vigilante wasn't a killer by nature.

_She went rogue. She can't be_ _trusted_.

Again he found himself wrestling to justify his past treatment of her with his present league with the vigilante. But the Batman was not under the jurisdiction of the GCPD. He didn't have protocol and regulations to follow. The Batman could execute his own justice outside the system because he had no allegiance to the system…and Dent excluded, he had never _killed._

_That was thirteen years ago. She's changed since then._

* * *

**13:55 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

Five minutes and counting. The patient known only as the Joker suddenly ceased his pacing, slicking sweat-soaked hair behind his ears, and sat as calmly and regally as a king. His dark, smoldering eyes were wild with excitement, glued to the television.

"What the Hell?" the security guard mused. "You think we should call this in?"

"He ain't hurting anyone for once. Maybe he really likes _As the World Turns_," the other shrugged. "Leave it."

* * *

**13:57 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

"Unidentified Aircraft, you are in Restricted City Airspace, repeat Restricted City Airspace," Traffic Control came muted over the headsets. "Traffic Control Aircraft will guide you out-"

James looked desperately down, the colors and crowd of the _Stop the Violence _Parade scattered tiny and bright across the intersecting streets, overflowing the plaza. Red and white balloons rose in clouds around them, blown into arching spirals by the wind of the chopper's twirling blades. They were so damn close-

Wayne glanced back, studying the two reporters, and made an executive decision. This wasn't Batman, this wasn't billionaire Bruce, this was himself: the childhood, arrowhead-stealing friend of Rachel Dawes... and he was only trying to do a favor for a little six-year-old girl.

He grabbed the radio from the Captain. "That's a big fat uh, negatory, Traffic Control," he said pleasantly, propping his feet up on the dash. "You see, my name is Bruce Wayne and I _own _half this goddamn city. So I prefer to think of it as _my _goddamn airspace. So why don't we both just…forget about this and you tell your boys to stand down?"

James let out a hiccoughing chirp, staring at him in a mix of disgust and astonished, thankful admiration. Shaw had turned away, laughing silently into the bowed glass window.

* * *

**13:58 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

Two minutes and counting. The Joker stretched lazily on the chair in his cell, casting a glance at the guards and giving them a grotesque wink. He turned back to the television, humming obscenely. It wouldn't be long now.

**13:59.**

He turned back to the guards, smacking his lips. "Do you want to see a, uh magic trick?" They remained deadpan, refusing to meet his gaze. "Tsk, Tsk, _Not _very polite-tuh," he grinned, then waved his hands elaborately, covering the small screen. "I can, uh, can make that uh, that limo _disappear_," he sniggered, the grin growing on his face, stretching and pulling at the hideous scars on his cheeks and lips until he was utterly grotesque, no trace of humanity left in his visage or his burning eyes…

That little Asian sex kitten was still jabbering away about the Governor. The white limousine had almost pulled even with her. He closed his eyes, waiting…

**14:00.**

"_Abra cadabra_."

* * *

**Legacy Plaza**

"Though few may know it, Governor Greyson Richards is actually the cousin of the late Harvey Dent, former DA of Gotham City. After Dent's tragic death last year, Richards began a campaign that led to his, his inauguration—" Trisha Tanaka's wide, wondering eyes left the camera, her voice trailing off in mid-sentence, gaze following a small plume of white smoke-

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"_Fuck!_" Lawless shouted in shock. "_Gordon!"_

* * *

**Legacy Plaza**

It happened in an instant. It had been nineteen years, but she knew that smoke, knew that high, whistling whine from eighteen months on tour in Pakistan, _an exploded tank, men screaming, burned bodies crisped and blackened like charcoal-_

"_RPG!_" Lt. Gwen Paltron threw herself to the side, forcing the younger officer to the ground, and covering him with her body. The explosion rocked the streets, sending white-hot debris flying into the air and the crowd, a belch of acrid black smoke choking those who escaped the blast of heat. She squinted her eyes open through Connolly's hair as the last pieces of concrete and metal rained down-

The blank, open eyes of Trisha Tanaka stared at her not a meter away. Half her skull was missing. Diamond earrings sparkled in a spreading pool of blackened blood.

Another deafening explosion. She shut her eyes tight, Connolly's scream rupturing her ears. Everything was blurry—vision, hearing, consciousness…through the smoke and haze she could hear screams, running feet moving like a tide down the sidewalks, around her, people groaning and crying out in pain, rolling over, standing up-

"_No!"_ she shouted, raising her head. "_Stay down!"_

Another blast. The boy underneath her cried out in pain and fear as she slammed him next to the curb, using the sidewalk to protect him further. She opened her eyes, and the fallen were not getting up. A few were still standing, wandering, staggering, hands pressed to their aching, deafened ears, gasping and moaning as blood poured to the sidewalk-

"_Stay down!_" But they couldn't hear, dazed, deafened-

Dead.

Another high pitched whine, another earth jarring explosion, another deluge of concrete and ash and soot and body parts ripped flying everywhere. She rolled back on top of the boy, pinning him down as he struggled in fear to stand, to run, to get away! "_Stay here!"_ she shouted. _"Stay down!"_

* * *

**Above Gotham City**

"Look!" Shaw shouted. "Smoke!" The four looked down, drawn to her pointing finger. Black clouds belched from the Plaza-

The southwest corner of the Legacy's spire tilted. Ever so slightly. Then seventy-four storeys of steel and glass shuddered, slipped, and disappeared.

"_Oh my God!"_ Wayne shouted. "_Oh SHIT!"_

"_TRISH!" _Rebecca James clawed at her belt, tore the headset from her face, scrabbled at the buckles strapping her in, holding her down, keeping her away- "_TRISH!"_

Cameron Shaw had vomited, face pale, mouth etched in a silent, wordless scream.

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"_Get me visuals!"_ Gordon shouted. Every screen had gone blank at once. Fred Milton desperately checked the monitors, the plugs, the radios…He tried the local news stations…he could raise nothing. No one. Either power had somehow been cut solely to the Tracking Room Intake or-

Or all outgoing signals from the Legacy had been lost simultaneously.

_Oh, shit. Oh Christ. Please no-_

"Oh Christ! What the fuck was that!" Lawless' fingers tore at his hair_. Paltron. The Kid! _"They were right there, Jesus Christ they were _right there-!"_

A long, terrible shriek came from the hallway. "_OH, FUCK ME! OH SHIT OH FUCK!"_

The three thundered out of the Tracking Room, adrenaline pumping, confusion, anger, and fear propelling them towards the sound.

Renee Montoya, still screaming. "What's wrong, God, honey what's wrong!" Lawless grabbed her, pulling her away from the window.

But Milton already knew.

"IT'S GONE! IT'S FUCKING _GONE!"_ she shouted, tears pouring down her face she was gasping, sobbing, hyperventilating-

"What's gone—!" Lawless shook her.

"The Legacy." Milton whispered.

"IT'S GONE IT'S GONE IT'S FUCKING _GONE!"_

Jim Gordon stared out the window in shock, for one agonized moment his heart stopping completely. Rising in Gotham's Skyline were clouds of grey dust, black smoke. Rising through the jagged, naked scar where the Legacy used to be.

_They were there Jesus Christ they were right there!_ Lawless' words came back to haunt him as the woman struggled against him, screaming.

_A year ago. standing on the frigid deck of the ferry waiting the countdown. Fifty-six seconds until they murdered or were murdered. "You're here," Paltron finally whispered, face empty and blank. "There's no one else for me to call."_

_Four months ago. "He, he, he raped me! He was my d-dad and he raped me!" Rage. Adrenaline. Pity. He pulled the sobbing boy close as he tensed, screaming and refusing, knowing nothing but fear and fright in even such an innocent, loving embrace…a father's embrace. The one touch, the only touch, he had never had from a man-_

Burning rage and sickening sorrow. They were _right there_. Jesus Christ they were right there… Lawless held the weeping woman tightly as she sobbed. Her whispered words rose in the terrible silence: _Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum…benedicta tu en mulieribus et, et benedictus…benedictus fructus ventris tui…Sancta Maria, mater Deus, ora pro nobis pe-peccatoribus nunc, nunc et in hora m-m-mortis nostrae-!_

Milton sat shakily on the cold tile floor, face buried in his hands.

Over thirty-five thousand people in the streets. Most of them students, teachers, or parents, believing in a better future.

GCPD. GCFD. GCEMS. All had representatives at the scene. Many were operating on minimum capacity.

All those people, all those lives, all that hope

In one instant, in one moment

Extinguished.

* * *

**14:03 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

The pilot kept his head. As the Legacy collapsed he veered up sharply, bringing them up above the level of the surrounding skyscrapers where they could mourn in safety.

"Jesus Christ," He whispered, as plumes of dust and smoke ebbed over a span of 15 city blocks.

Shaw was white and trembling. James was pale, shaking and sobbing, "It should've been me it should've been me instead—"

_I was supposed to be there,_ Bruce thought numbly. _If I had left on time we'd all be dead-_

Paul Binkowski was the first to recover. He was filming, had been filming this whole time. What for, he could not guess…but he knew instinctively he now had the only available tape of the Legacy's destruction. Every major local news station—18, 37, Gotham Galore, the Urban Scene Network…hell, even CNN—had had ground crews on sight. Perhaps multiples…

"Put me through to TV 18," he said quietly to the captain. "Please."

"Chris? This is Paul. We've got aerial—live feed. I'm linking it to a cell phone and sending it your way." Then he turned his balding head to James and Shaw. "You need to cover this."

Silence. Seconds ticked by. Wayne looked at him through suffocating tears as both women blanched and turned away. "He's right."

"No. No!" Shaw screamed, burying her face in her hands. 'Trish! Oh God, _Gracie-!"_

"_It should've been me!"_ Rebecca sobbed. _"I should've been there instead-"_

"Hey, listen. Listen!" Wayne said sharply, unbuckling his belt and climbing over the seat towards her. He shook her shoulders gently but firmly. "It's over now. Okay? It's over. Even if you had covered for Trish she still would have been there. More people would've died, okay?" He held her close, rocking her slowly. "This isn't your fault. It's not your fault. There's nothing you can do now. Nothing." He spoke not only to her but to himself, the terrible thought that perhaps if he had been there, if he had only been there he could have done something to stop this…

James' nails dug deep into his arms and she took a gasping, steadying breath. Wayne squeezed her tightly, then let go.

She dried her face with a blot of her sleeve, tearing green eyes staring fiercely into the camera. Paul nodded.

"We're live."

* * *

**14:09 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

_Laughing laughing fucking laughing it was hilarious the best punch line to the best, best joke he ever told-!_

TV 18 went off air. Well, of course! That little whore was cinders. Couldn't show that on television, now uh, could we? With a studious look he brought the remote up, pressing the channel button with a tilt of his head and a disgusting shiver-

He was disappointed.

All the channels went blank. Well, the local channels, that is…He didn't understand, it didn't make sense. No way in Hell those rockets took out _all _the news crews-

"This is Rebecca James reporting live from…from above Gotham City." Wait a moment, wait a moment-tuh: _that _reporter worked for the local uh, the local TV 18…what the Hell was she doing on uh, _CNN?_ He flipped the channels, her face appearing on all the networks…

Interesting.

It was noisy-she was wearing a headset over her ridiculous mane of red curls-

A helicopter. That's where she was a helicopter…but what the hell was all that uh, that black smoke?

_BREEEEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEeeeeEEEEE-!_

The alarms shook Arkham to its core, inmates cowering in fear, security guards looking nervously around. His own guards wheeled, guns drawn.

_CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CALLED ALL PERSONNEL REPORT CODE FIVE_-

Code Five. Natural Disaster.

Or Terrorist Attack.

The view panned out from the bitch's pale, freckled face to the window behind her, looking down-

The Joker howled in glee, kicking his feet laughing, laughing, tears pouring out of his eyes pounding fists into the chair _ribs aching hyperventilating jaw sore laughing laughing laughing!_

And to think he thought _his _jokes were good.

* * *

**14:33 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Cruisers sped down the parkway, sirens blaring through red lights, barreling towards the rising black smoke and greyish, dusty cloud.

"This is Commissioner Gordon speaking. All units we are Code Five, I repeat Code Five. We have initiated FEMA protocol—"

"SHIT!" Lawless shouted, slamming the brakes. The dust cloud was still expanding, wafting down the road, a white-out of asbestos, plaster and glass. Around him, other crews were doing the same.

The Commissioner shouted over the radio, "Only medical and emergency vehicles on the streets! Park all squad cars on the sidewalks! We've got to get them through—"

Lawless sprinted after the Commissioner, racing to keep up. A fire truck went hurtling past them on the Parkway, sirens screaming. All around, for blocks upon blocks, sirens echoed and wailed, tinny and ominous in the grey fog. GCPD. GCFD. EMS. Men and women racing down the street, stumbling in the blinding cloud, desperate to reach the plaza.

Through the haze, a dark shadow grew. Closer and closer it loomed. Lawless stopped cold, realizing suddenly it was a host of survivors-

"Paltron!" Lawless' gruff voice rang. "Connolly!" No answer. They straggled past, maybe sixty of them, Red Cross and paramedics grabbing the weak and the injured-

"Gordon! Gordon wait!" Lawless shouted hoarsely, waist deep in rubble, scrambling over the still settling dust and debris of what was once the Wayne Legacy Foundation. "Gordon!" He erupted in a fit of coughing, choking on the dust and glass that now coated his face, his clothes, and his throat.

He passed more people, bewildered, hurt, confused. They looked at him, under the layer of dust, and couldn't even tell he was a cop. It was better this way, he thought. Better than the screams and pleading for help-

"Christ," He said, finally catching up with Gordon, five blocks out, taking his first look at the ruined remains. Twisted steel spires still jutted like shipwrecks from a sea of concrete and plaster, papery debris floating like a terrible autumn through the air. Not seeing the Foundation's familiar spire through the skyline had been bad enough, a jagged, naked scar on the horizon. The earthquake, the screaming, the sudden release of dust and ash that coated the city from fifteen blocks away…they were nothing compared to this.

"Paltron!" Lawless cried again, weaker and sickly in the muffling, suffocating dust. "Connolly!"

He looked helplessly over at the shell-shocked Commissioner. Grey dust had coated his hair, his clothes, even settling into his mustache, making him look older, more careworn and desperately tired than the Detective had ever seen him before.

"Paltron! Connolly!" Aaron shouted, the low, whooshing hiss of falling dust drowning the sound.

But there was no answer, and looking out at the utter ruin of the Joker's most recent revenge, he understood now there wouldn't be.

* * *

**14:46 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

"I've just received, received word that the first group of survivors has been found—" James' shaky voice rang through the cabin. "Sixty people were evacuated to Sisters of Mercy Convent for emergency treatment….other emergency sites include Gotham United Methodist Hospitals, Arkham Asylum, and all GCPSC gymnasiums.." she rattled off a long list of locations, prompted by the Network's voice in her ear, Paul standing behind the camera, changing the focus from her pale face to the carnage below.

Shaw continued to stare, stricken, out the window.

Bruce called Fox again.

* * *

**14:58 EST**

**Gotham City Public Transit Station 213**

Panting in the afternoon heat and the dense, suffocating dust, Renee Montoya shouted over the emergency band. "Officer needs assistance I repeat officer needs assistance! Estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway I repeat, estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway-!"

* * *

**15:36 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"IV fluids!" Amy Lawless shouted, rushing yet another stretcher down the long hall to surgery. She had pulled the last bloated bag from the ER storage. "How many do we have in stock?"

"I, I think maybe eight hundred more in Ambulatory-"

"Save them!" She shouted, running an alcohol swab down the arm of the skinny thirteen year-old girl. "Have security bring 'em up here but give 'em only to unconscious patients! If they can swallow I want oral hydration, three hundred cc's every ten minutes for an hour!" Done. She ripped open the IV kit, dropping the contents on the bed sheet. "You!" She shouted to a pale faced, stricken aid. The trembling girl didn't belong on the floor in that state. "Make copies of any ID! Call families!" The young woman blinked and tore off, purpose giving her new strength…

No time to think, no time to worry, no time to weep…Amy pinched the fleshy bulge over the elbow, feeling the shrunken veins. _Damn it, these kids had been sitting outside all day in the heat, they were already dehydrated-!_ She plunged the needle in, securing it with tape, then used a hypodermic to flush the site. "She's prepped!"

Dr. Chavez came thundering from the surgery room. "Bring her!" Amy grabbed the bedrail with her gloved hands, sprinting with the girl down the hall.

She wasn't scrubbed down, wasn't wearing a mask her gloved hands were filthy but she finished tearing the girl's clothes off as the anesthetic hit her. Wedged through the tiny girl's mid-back was a sharp shard of metal—probably from a car—resting millimeters from her kidney sack….Scalpel. Lancet. No time for worries about minimal scarring. Dark iodine rubbed over the site. "I'm going in. I'm clamping off the renal artery." Chavez explained, already through the dermal layers, a long, sweeping incision right under her ribs, cutting now crosswise through the pinkish muscles. "If this starts bleeding the whole thing's going to hell, okay? We'll have to cauterize the artery—"

"She'll lose her kidney!" Amy shouted, placing pins in the fatty flesh, holding it apart.

"And she'll live!" Chavez snapped. "Do we have a blood type?"

"We don't even know her name!"

"You call lab." He shouted. "Tell them I want a refrigerator of O brought to the ER, stat. Everyone's getting it unless they've got a driver's license!"

Tweezers around the shard, slowly, gently pulling back-

Explosion. Thick, viscous blood splattered from the site, Chavez swearing and suctioning it away. "_I need that blood. I need it stat!"_

* * *

**15:58 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

"Lucius!" Bruce yelped when Fox answered on the first ring. He had been dialing once every two minutes, receiving nothing but voicemail.

"Mr. Wayne?" Lucius' slow voice was hazy, distant. Confused.

"Lucius! What can we do?"

There was a long silence. "Mr. Wayne…I don't think even Batman could help in a situation like this…"

"Wayne Enterprises! With search and recovery!" Bruce said desperately. "Surely there's something we can do to help-"

"I was there," Fox whispered emotionlessly. "With my two granddaughters-"

"Shit, Lucius," Mikeala and Nichelle. He had forgotten-

"Their mother's picking them up…they're, we're fine….I'll, I'll look through the records to see if there's, if there's anything we can do."

Bruce hung up the phone, watching the rising smoke and dust that were the only remains of the Legacy. Wayne Enterprises brought all those people together, made them targets for the largest terrorist attack on American soil….She would not abandon them.

"Sir, we're going to have to land. Fuel tanks are getting low."

"Take us to Wayne Enterprises!" Bruce shouted through the Comm. He would meet Fox there. He looked back into the cabin, James still talking into the camera, reading emails sent via cell phone from the news corporation. She was pale and shaky, but goddamned determined. Shaw was still curled in misery on her seat, face covered in her hands, straight blonde hair now a tangled, worried mess. He reached back and touched her leg. "Hey," he tried to smile but couldn't. "It's going to be okay."

It was a lie. But what else could he say?

* * *

**16:32 EST**

**Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward**

"_You heartless bastard! You did this you did this—!"_ security dragged the shouting nurse back as she kicked and screamed. "_My daughter was there you bastard my daughter was there!"_

Dr. Quinzel came running down the hall, purple high heels clicking with every hurried step. "We can't keep him here. Move him!"

"Where?" Frank Boles challenged. "We've got nearly two hundred people down in the cafeteria, all the rooms are full—"

"Morrison's room! It's empty. We've got to keep people away!"

"_You want to protect HIM!"_ the nurse shrieked. _"I'll kill you I'll fucking kill you too!"_

"The safety of all our patients is my concern," Harleen said coldly. "She won't be the last. Put him in Morrison's room. Keep security outside this door."

Boles gaped. "You want us to transfer a maximum security prisoner to a patient care ward? _Without security? _Lady are you nuts!"

"Number one," Quinzel said fiercely. "These are _patients,_ not prisoners! And secondly, you're going to have to! He's just as confined in a patient care ward as he is here. If you keep him here we're going to have break ins…and if this unit is breached, he won't be the only one to escape!"

She was right. Reluctantly, they consented. "We'll do what you want, ma'am," the chief of Arkham Asylum Security said. "But you're going to have to post this as a direct order. My men are not taking the heat for this one if it goes sour. I'm documenting this as contrary to advice and protocol—"

"You idiot!" Quinzel snapped. "If either of us document it's open for the whole system to read. Do you think it's a coincidence _she_ was the first to attack him?" Hastily she scribbled a note, muttering vehemently about lost time and cowards. "This does not make it onto the computers," she hissed. "But it'll cover your ass. Now if you'll excuse me, I have _patients_ to treat."

* * *

**17:04 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Screams, shouts, bloodcurdling wails…in some places the rubble had begun to blaze. Everywhere Aaron went, there was suffering, someone needed him, needed his help…but he had to get to Paltron, had to find the Kid, pull him up from the wreckage wearing his small, shy smile and stupid purple T-shirt, had to introduce him to Gordon so he could buy him dinner…had to keep working his way towards the Legacy itself, had to see, to know for sure…

But it would be days, weeks, months, even, before this mess was cleared.

GCFD. The letters were blazoned on the dead man's suit. Damn. Aaron dug around the body, pushing his back into a crumbling slab of concrete and prying the corpse loose. Leave it, he thought, go on to the next…

There were dogs now, loosed on the edges of the pile, climbing, circling, searching for victims. Good. The dogs were good. Someone was still thinking, operating according to plan-

Plan. Aaron stopped dead in his tracks, remembering something the bastard had said_: do I look like a man with a plan?_ His hideous laughter rang in Aaron's ears as he continued to climb the mountain of steel, concrete, glass and dust. What was left of Gotham's officers, civil servants, emergency and relief workers was now converging on this very spot…They would be fucking pants down for another explosion.

"Shit!" he said aloud, grabbing his phone and calling Gordon. The Commissioner's line was busy, and he cursed again, knowing it would be useless to call any emergency center at this time. Every line in Gotham would be ringing off the hook, the operators swamped, a city desperate for certainty, grasping for answers and reassurance…

But Detective Aaron Lawless was standing in the middle of Chaos, knowing the only certainty here was that there were none.

* * *

**18:39 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

Alfred Pennyworth woke suddenly, blinking in surprise. The parlor was in half light, the windows still open. Hastily he checked the wall clock, shocked to see the lateness of the hour.

_My lands_, he thought, standing shakily. _I've missed the entire thing-_

Bruce's speech would be taped of course, but he had hoped to watch it live…

6:39. The kitchen staff should be busy by now. He wandered in, wondering at the lack of activity, this afternoon's dishes still dirty and unscraped on the counter. How odd.

The sound of voices from the staff room. It sounded like television. He pushed open the door.

A pale, red-headed woman was on the giant screen, standing in the midst of what appeared to be a war zone. _My God_, Alfred's heart leapt. _We've gone to war…_

"Over three thousand people have been hospitalized so far…the National Guard is helping to evacuate non-critical patients to surrounding counties and their facilities… Lt. Governor Stephanie Miller has placed the entire City under military jurisdiction, and President Calderon has labeled Gotham a Crisis Zone-"

Alfred blinked. Gotham? _Gotham City?_ But that would mean the reporter was here in Gotham…her pale, stricken face and voice grew eerily familiar in the silence. None of the kitchen staff spoke. Their eyes were glued to the television, faces traced in tears…

James. Rebecca James. That was her name.

She had to be here in Gotham. And that war zone, that fire, that smoke that hell and chaos behind her could only be one thing-

Panic.

Heart pounding, head reeling, Alfred stumbled through the kitchen, pain and dread growing in his chest. He coughed weakly, staggering to the window, and threw back the curtains.

Smoke. Ash. Dust. They covered a sinking, blood red sun in a sinister shadow. Alfred gasped for breath, falling, chest on fire, clutching one hand over the throbbing, aching pulse tearing through his left arm. His eyes widened in pain and shock, bluing lips pursing, mouthing _Bruce._

* * *

**19:00 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises**

"What've you got for me?" Bruce asked, pacing behind the elderly man. Fox's weathered hands were in his short, greying hair, his head slumped forward on the desk. A picture of Mikeale and Nichelle—his nine year-old, twin granddaughters-lay on his lap.

"Not much, Mr. Wayne," he said, sighing and opening his dark eyes. "The Cardia. EMF technology with roots dating from the 90's. It detects electromagnetic fields-especially weak ones. US military has an exclusive contract, they use it for special ops missions…and extreme events, such as earthquakes, hurricanes, and, and even 9/11. The Chinese used something similar in 2008…This is a more updated model-better even than Geovox or Life-guard. Much more powerful, much more reliable. If it has a heartbeat, it'll show."

"And the range?"

"About half a mile. It's accurate, too, within half a meter, give or take. We developed this model for the military, strictly Black Ops. They're damn expensive, never manufactured commercially for search and recover, you'll understand…but it'd do the same thing: locate living people."

Bruce nodded, his desperation for answers, for help, for something to give back slowly fading into fierce determination. "That's good. What else?"

"Echolocation technology. If you can reboot it, that is," Fox turned, looking him in the eye. "Seventy-nine percent of the American public carries a personal cell phone…starting at age six. If the phones are on, we can tap their speakers, image the wreckage, model it in 3-D, give emergency services an idea where, where flare-ups and…bodies lay." He sighed, looking again at the picture of his family, running a tired, dark hand over its surface.

"We were late, you know," Fox's mild voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "If we had left on time we would have gotten there before the crowd…we would have been right there. Right in the plaza."

Bruce was silent. "You're here now," he said lowly. "And Mikeala and Nichelle are fine."

"We need to get this to MCU," Fox stood abruptly. "I've, I've been tampering with the machine. You'll need the original password to re-start."

"It's _Lucius Fox_." Bruce grunted, "Get it online. As for the Cardia-"

"Every existing proto-type is here," Lucius gestured to twelve sealed cases stacked under the desk. "It's a ray gun, uses auto-triangulation. Point and shoot. Even a kindergartener could use it."

"Echolocation," his voice was growing deeper, raspier. "Can it be moved? Onsite?"

Fox nodded. "Yes, Mr. Wayne. I believe it can. The signals will be stronger the closer they are—and a perimeter would help us triangulate."

"Good." Growling, gravelly, guttural. "We'll get them to Gordon."

"Mr. Wayne?" Fox asked hesitantly. His young employer turned, face a rictus of cold, calculating rage. It was no longer the face nor the voice of billionaire Bruce Wayne. It took a moment for Fox to realize it was the Batman, unmasked…

Even without cloak or armor, that anger was terrifying to behold.

* * *

**19:25 EST**

**1900 E. Philadelphia Dr., Apartment #3578**

Cameron Shaw unlocked her apartment door, slipping silently in and shutting it behind her. As soon as the lock clicked, she set the dead bolt with trembling fingers then collapsed into the frame, sliding slowly downwards until she sprawled sobbing on the cold tile floor.

She watched a building fall, crushing thousands, a co-worker among them. She was angry and afraid. She watched another co-worker muster the courage to face that fear, stepping up to the plate with grim determination.

Trisha was dead. All the jealousy she had ever had felt now so incriminating and petty. And now Beck had stepped forward to take her place. Trisha made a living out of her face and tits, achieving in one interview what took other journalists years. And now Beck had done the same. Seized a solid, permanent career in a matter of moments, when a nation looked for hope and trust and found only a pale, red-haired woman to guide them through.

Cameron Shaw cried for the dead.

But mostly she cried in jealousy and guilt.

* * *

**20:37 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Darkness falling. Victims still pouring in. Many were simply dehydrated, confused, suffering panic attacks or even nervous breakdowns. For many it was psychological, raw emotional hurt. These patients needed friends, family, support-

But she did not have time. Today her job was stop the bleeding. Start the heart. No time for names or intimacy. Each was a life. Each must be saved. The stress of the ER shift was beginning to take it's toll…Amy Lawless' shaking hands bandaged yet another gaping cut, disinfected yet another scrape, wishing silently she could drink caffeine, praying urgently that the stress and panic, the adrenaline and fear hadn't already hurt the baby-

_14:00. She rushed out the doors of the Ambulance Bay, staggering in shock at the sight and weeping on the pavement, clutching thin hands to her mouth. The asphalt stained her clothing, scratched up her knees…and she couldn't feel the baby's heart._

An elderly gentleman. Mid sixties. He was unconscious, a medicated coma. The stress of the news had taken it's toll on his body. Alfred Pennyworth. He had been lucky that friends or family knew CPR. It had taken nearly ninety minutes for EMS to reach him…but the waves on his telemetry said his heart was still pumping strong. He would make it through this. He would survive—

She finished signing off on his vitals and placed a gloved hand over her flat stomach, pressing deeply, hoping to feel a gentle, steady pulse. Her heart leaped—! then fell. Her own aorta, and nothing more.

* * *

**20:52 EST**

**Near Gotham City Plaza**

Darkness falling. Stadium lights hauled in, illuminating the wreckage. A fifteen storey parking garage groaned and collapsed, buckling under the structural damage of its foundation and the constant, steady vibrations of the heavy flow of emergency traffic.

Renee Montoya watched helplessly as the rushing ambulance she just loaded with two small children disappeared with sudden finality under the crushing mound of concrete and dust.

Around her, survivors choked and covered their eyes and mouths against the raging wind of gravel and cement. Two EMS workers and a driver. An ambulance. Things they couldn't afford to lose.

She held her head up, blinking owlishly through the settling dust. Her rationality sickened her.

* * *

**21:49 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

The door swung open roughly, and Milton could hear protests from outside. Warily he spun from the monitors, gun up and at the ready.

He let his right arm drop. It was only Bradley.

"Man, what the hell? You can't bring civies in here-!" He protested as two plainclothes clamored wearily in behind his partner.

"I think you'll find we're not just civilians, Officer," Lucius Fox's smooth, reassuring tones began. "We're from Wayne Enterprises," he set a box-like silver case on the counter, deftly popping it open to reveal a padded interior and a strange looking, cathode gun, the tip a large, bowl shaped plate of steel. "And we believe we can help."

* * *

**22:08 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Officer Eugene Bradley sped down the cluttered road, sirens blaring, tearing through the maze of parked squad cars. The wind had change direction, and the Parkway was now clear and visible. In the passenger seat, the man who identified himself as Bruce Wayne sat still and emotionless.

"There she is," he stated. "The black van—"

"Looks like an Ops Center," Bradley noted, observing not only the dish antenna but the sliding door and lack of body windows. He handed Wayne a portable light. "Place this on the dash. Try to follow me as close as you can."

"You'll have a power source big enough for us?"

Bradley laughed humorlessly. "Wayne, you have any idea how many Watts go into one of those bad boys?" He gestured to the spotlights still visible thirteen blocks away. Lights Bruce recognized as sleeker, more modern designs, yet still comparable to the one Gordon used to fire into the night sky….

"Yeah, we've got you covered," the officer grunted, then the cruiser tore off again towards the glowing lights, wheels spinning and skidding on dusty pavement at sixty mph. Bruce followed as best he could, swerving in and out of the wreckage. But fifteen passenger vans-even modified ones—just weren't built for this kind of terrain.

If only he had the Tumbler.

* * *

**22:35 EST**

**Near Gotham City Plaza**

"Officer needs assistance I repeat Officer needs assistance!" Montoya barked over the comm. "I've got people who need help now!" She had evacuated most from the underground station, leaving behind only those too weak to stand or walk…but then the parking garage had fallen. Those left behind were now trapped, perhaps crushed. And she still had over a hundred out on the streets…

"I repeat Officer needs assistance!"

But she wasn't the only one. In concentric circles spreading for six blocks around the Plaza officers, medics, FD personnel, Red Cross Workers and National Guardsmen all shouted over the radio, each desperate to receive help for the victims in their charge…

Children whimpered. Grown men sat weeping openly. An elderly man toppled slowly sideways, heart giving out to exhaustion. She sprinted towards him, shouting into the radio, setting it down to start CPR.

Goddamn it. She found these people nearly eight hours ago. They should all have been evacuated by now-!"Officer needs assistance. I've got over a hundred live ones with me does anybody copy!"

"Montoya, that you?" A familiar voice came over the Comm. "We're targeting your position now, try to hold on—"

_Press. Press. Press. Breathe. Press. Press. Damn. Damn. Come on, Come on!_

"I had some left in the Subway! Station 213! They're trapped in there you've got to send FD to get 'em out!"

* * *

**22: 48 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"We're sending help your way, Montoya!" Milton cried. "Hang in there!"

"You guys serious about this shit?" Bradley asked. "Cause this is as real as it's gonna get. You better hope to God that fucker works." Bruce held the Cardia gingerly against his chest, feeling suddenly quite ridiculous and out of place, as though posing for a Sci-fi shoot. The thing just didn't look real.

Fox held one as well, and he smiled tiredly and grimly. "Lock and load, Mr. Wayne."

"You three—" Milton shouted as they clamoured into Bradley's squad car. "Find and locate the collapsed station, see if there's any left alive. I'm notifying GCFD and I've got Medevac choppers returning from Methodist. Fifteen minutes out. _Stay in contact!"_

* * *

**23:07 EST**

**Operator Log Methodist Hospital**

**FCC Emergency Frequency Band**

_Methodist One, Methodist One this is Medevac Chopper 418. Do you copy?_

_Medevac, this is Methodist One. We copy._

_Inbound flight with six patients presenting critical condition. Estimated arrival time ninety-seven seconds. Request permission to land._

_Permission Granted. Paramedics will meet you on rooftop. Pad two. Repeat, Pad two._

_Methodist One, we have Pad two. Pad two. Estimated Arrival time forty-eight seconds._

_Medevac 418, we have thirty-six seconds to arrival. Thirty-one seconds to arrival. Twenty-five seconds to arrival…_

* * *

**23:31 EST**

**Near Gotham City Plaza**

"_No, No, oh fuck NO!"_ Bruce shouted as yet another green light blipped, blinked, turned red and was lost. Eighteen dots. Eighteen fields. Eighteen pulses. Eighteen goddamned people…

GCFD had arrived. Begun digging into the tunnel from the surface, sending crews to stations 212 and 214…But they were too late. Far too late. Red lights blinking, flickering, hearts stopping, growing cold.

Fox sat shakily on the cluttered curb, one weathered hand on his drawn face. Too late. They had been too late. If only he had picked up his phone earlier, if only Marissa could've come faster for the twins, if only…

"GOD DAMNIT!" Bradley swore, kicking the hubcap of the cruiser, three toes of his left foot crushing and breaking against the unforgiving steel. He let out a primeval cry, falling to his knees, fists clenched in rage, loss and pain. _They were right here they were right fucking here—!_ "Bastard," He whispered, tears prickling his eyes "You'll fucking pay for this."

Renee Montoya watched in silent shock, face twisted and contorted in sorrow and fury. 15:00. That's when she found them. Shepherded them. Led them. Seven hours. Seven fucking hours they had and fucking no one could get to them…

All around, her survivors were being loaded into ambulances, walked by GCEMS, Red Cross Volunteers, GCFD. She had found two hundred. She'd lost twenty-one. Each face flashed vividly before her eyes, people muttering she did what she had to, did what she could… it wasn't her fault.

A young mother clutched her small daughter as a stretcher wheeled past, holding the blonde child's bruised and bloody face to her chest, whispering to her soothingly: _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…And yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no Evil. For You are with me, Your rod and Your Staff, They comfort me…_

_Comfort?_ Forsaken. Left. Abandoned. Dead. There was no comfort for her here. Montoya sat miserably in the open passenger's side of Bradley's cruiser, face in her olive hands, rocking slowly, finally finding the strength to cry.

_Dios mio, Dios mio, por qué me has desamparado?_

GCPD Officer Eugene Bradley knelt next to the cruiser, violent red and blue flashing and reflecting in it's sleek, black surface. He recognized the words, bowing his head with her in a cry that was more an accusation: _My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?_

But there was no comfort in those words. Only a terrible, terrible truth. If there truly was a God who was good, He had utterly forsaken them.

* * *

**23:32 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Fred Milton threw the headset across the interior of the tracking room, pounding a shaking fist against the acrylic counter, swearing and sobbing. Goddamn it t_hey were so fucking close-!_

* * *

**23:41 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Rebecca James cringed as Chris Holden's voice relayed the information in her ear. Behind the camera, Paul tensed, his bloodshot eyes looking wonderingly into hers. She brushed a strand of ruined red curls from her face as a chopper flew overhead.

"We've, we've just received word that eighteen people have died in Transit Station 213. The Parking Garage above the station collapsed, trapping survivors inside—" her voice broke, but she continued narrating, head held high, weary green eyes focused fiercely into the camera. "This brings the Legacy's official death toll to nine-hundred, sixty, sixty-five…"

* * *

**23: 43 EST**

**Sisters of Mercy Memorial Garden**

Darkness. They left the Convent in a long train of mourning, heads bowed, flesh glowing eerily with the flickering of votive candles. Next to the towering church was an empty lot, trampled weeds and thistles growing up from the foundations of a ruined building. Nearly twelve hundred were already gathered.

The Sisters of Mercy joined the sad circle of mourners and vigil holders, speaking no words but crying out in their hearts.

Twenty-four year old Sister Theresa Margaret, long, long ago Maggie Kyle, stood silently in the shadow of a beaten, weathered statue: an Archangel, wings unfurled, the concrete broken in many places, only the vague form and the solemn face still recognizable. A large sliver had cracked from the right cheek leaving a dark, running scar. In the wavering light, the Angel, like the silent Sister, could almost be weeping.

* * *

**23:46 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"Clear!" Chest jumping, limbs twitching. "Clear!" Eyes rolling, whites gleaming-

Nothing. The EKG was flat, the extended, eerie whine the only sound in the silence.

Dr. Mark Chavez hung his head. Nine-hundred sixty-six. "Time of death, 11:46 PM."

His heart stopped beating. His heart stopped beating dead dead the man _the baby her baby was_ _dead—! _Hands trembling, knees shaking, Amy Lawless removed the EKG pads, covering the dead face with a starched white sheet, and began the long, slow walk to the Methodist morgue.

* * *

**23: 47 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Awake.

Alone in the dark. Paralyzed. Entombed.

Silence. Darkness.

And Alone. Terribly, fearfully, unbearably Alone.

_Please God please someone oh please anything anything not alone not alone-!_

Something warm. A hand! A woman's soft hand, lying limp and lifeless next to his. He reached and sobbed, fingers aching to draw it close…

He would hold it, kiss it, pressing, desperate, his only comfort, only hope for the next fifteen endless hours.

* * *

**23: 55 EST**

**Ground Zero, Gotham City**

Aaron Lawless blinked. A chopper wheeled overhead, long spirals of dust lifting and floating from the smoking wreckage. A strange, sobbing noise. A baby? He climbed achingly over the wreckage, forcing himself faster towards the sound.

Dogs. Thirteen dogs. Moaning. Licking. Whining dogs. And somehow their crying was worse than a baby, worse than a child, worse than any human at all. Bleeding and burned they lay on their sides, protesting their innocence to whatever god who had determined it so…

Gordon. Lawless blinked again. He was barely recognizable, face blank, lost, eyes staring and empty.

"Medic!" A fireman appeared through the smoke and haze, knocking the Detective over in his haste. "_I need a medic!"_ In his arms lay a limp little girl.

"We need and ambulance!"

"There are no more ambulances!"

"Christ she's going into shock!"

Lawless raised himself to his hands and knees, trembling in pain, exhaustion, and growing dread. He rose shakily, heart dropping. The little girl was dead.

Flashing lights. Roaring blades. Flickering, dancing ash and water. Hoarse shouts and terrible screams. He blinked again, dread giving way to horror as Commissioner Gordon swayed, staggered, and collapsed.

"_GORDON!"_

* * *

**23:59 EST**

**Ground Zero, Gotham City**

"Jesus, Gordon. I thought you were having a stroke," Lawless' gruff, ragged voice cut through the darkness. "Gordon? Gordon!"

Jim Gordon coughed, sitting up on the tail of the ambulance, his eyes slowly coming back into focus in this epileptic nightmare. "I need to…to call Barb. Let her know I'm okay—"

Gordon coughed again, wiping his face and taking the sharp oxygen tubes out of his parched nostrils.

"Mr. Gordon-_Commissioner!_" Lawless turned. Shit. Just what they needed…a red-haired reporter tailed by a broadcasting camera stood in front of them. "Sir, what, what can you tell us?"

Gordon blinked slowly as dust and smoke rained down through the shafts of the stadium lights. His answer was both hollow and confused.

"I… I don't know..."

Rebecca James looked back into the camera, then let out a sob and dropped the microphone. She staggered to her knees and fell, weeping.

"Beck? Beck!" Chris Holden's tinny voice soothed in her ear. "Honey, you can't do this. You're _live—"_

_Live. Alive. All those people! Trisha! Oh God Gracie! And 213—! _And the redhead reporter only sobbed harder.

"Barb? This is Lawless!" Aaron shouted into the mouthpiece, insides tearing at her panicked plea "No, he's fine! He's right here! Look, he can't talk right now but he's fine, I promise…yeah, that was him…it'll be okay Barb, alright? _Jim's okay…"_

But it wouldn't be okay. Christ, Paltron was dead. _The Kid _was dead. A young woman wept. Dogs moaned piteously. People screamed. Flames erupted in the rubble. Foaming water and burning ash met hissing in the air. Medics hustled past with three stretchers…

Armageddon.

He turned back to Gordon.

A detective, a nation and a city looked to one man, one leader for hope, but found themselves thrust bleakly into Fitzgerald's despair: _All wars fought, all gods dead, all faith in men utterly shaken._

There would be no answers this side of paradise.

* * *

**24:00. Tuesday, August 20th.**

The Dawn would be long in coming.


	10. Servatrix

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:00 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

"You look like shit," Lawless says, stopping feet from me. "And you're fucking late." Wayne and Fox stare nervously at us until Lawless attempts a haggard smile.

Blood drips from my knee and it nearly buckles as he puts his hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly, looking me over from feet to head. "Tangle with a cement mixer?"

"It was a Porche, actually," I state evenly, jerking my head to Wayne.

"For which I've offered my sincerest apologies—" he begins, but Lawless ignores him, hazel eyes boring straight into mine, delving deeper, our last conversation hanging heavy and silent between us: _The old Berettas. The 92F's…you ever have one not work for you?_

He knew.

He brings his head down to mine, our foreheads touching. "It's damn good to see you," he finally whispers.

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:03 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

We leave Wayne and Fox behind. I am limping after Lawless, panting up the stairs. GCPD is everywhere. CSI, MCU, Homicide…I know nearly every face. Pain and exhaustion. I see them as though through a veil. No longer one of them, our worlds of sound and color, justice and order flickering together, only briefly coinciding…

Beaten, sweaty, shaking and fevered…I am nearly unrecognizable.

It's easy to see where the bodies must lay-a long hall leads to the staging room, and it's swarming with cops and EMS. Lawless shoulders through and I stagger behind, aching to keep up. Every step ricochets pain up my side, every sidelong glance bringing my guilt again before me.

Killer. Killer. Killer.

Lights flash, the media is here, CSI sweeps the scene, officers keep inquiring civilians and reporters away from that long hall. The blinding lights sear my retinas, leaving blue spots in my blinking eyes…

For a moment, I hear voices:

* * *

_Sickofreakfuckingchildmolesterthey'llgetyouinpriso nyou'llgetwhat'scoming—!_

_Blinding flashing camera lights and pulsing arms reaching garbage thrown I am pressed, hemmed, pulled, dragged,…Dent is at my side and blows meant for me rain down on him. They shove me down the crowded white steps of Gotham City Court House, hands bound behind my back, a squad car with an open door waiting at the base of the long marble stairs._

_YouwereapoliceofficerApoliceofficerweweresupposedt obeabletotrustyou—!_

_The mob is shouting, I am staggering. The riot squad is broken they rush through-_

_Tear gas. Rubber bullets. I am shoved to the ground. They take no chances-even my security detail wishes me a long, healthy life in prison._

_Hopeyoulikeitinmemorialhopethey'rerealfriendlyhope togodyou'recellmate'safuckingdyke—!_

_They hate nothing worse than a dirty cop…unless it's a child molester. And I am both. They scream and mock, hurling insults, shoes, garbage and death threats. Dent covers my head, shouting _enough already, enough!

_Seewhatit'sliketogetfuckedseehowyouliketogetfucked —!_

_Can't see can't move angry feet wheel dancing all around Riot One calls for backup assistance people trampled underfoot Dent is ripped from me head slammed into the marble steps, taste of blood, ache of chipped teeth…_

_I am surrounded by an angry tide, dragging me, drowning me, pulling me under. I feel a pang: Angel. Is he watching? His beautiful face, his innocent eyes, running to Gerald who offers him the hopeful deceit of warm, loving arms. He is eight, a young eight. Much too young to understand. My words hang like a shield over me as fists rain down, men in Kevlar struggle to protect me: _They will take me from you and lie to you and tell you I did those things to you and you can never, ever see me again because I'm a fucking child molester who deserves to die in prison anyway and the lies, lies, lies I will take and bear in your name because I love you, Angel-

_Youwereapoliceofficeryouweresupposedtoprotecthim—! _

_Lights flash, women screaming, world spinning—_

_A final blow, a kick to the ribs. Vision blackens, Angel's lips part, they tear me away. A horrible, horrible doubt seizes me: Angel. Does he know it to be a lie? Or will this—all this—only re-affirm to him my guilt?_

* * *

I blink, my eyes coming back from unfocused darkness; vision, hearing and consciousness fight through a growing, colorless haze. We reach the end of the long hall, the flashing bulbs dying into the background. I need to rest, to slow down…

But I'm so close. I just need to see.

Lawless slips in. I am checked at the door.

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:07 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

"No civilians past this point, ma'am," Detective Crispus Allen holds out a strong arm to stop me. Montoya's partner. I've worked with him for the past six years. I see him every day at dual headquarters, yet he doesn't know me.

Lawless looks back as I fumble for my badge. _Dmitri. Girls. Dogs._ _Swastika, swinging sign, broken tracks…_

Allen snatches the mirrored sunglasses from his eyes with a large, dark hand, staring first at the badge, then into my face intently. Recognition and growing horror dawn in his deep eyes. "_Paltron?_"

I nod.

"Shit, woman. You don't look so good. Here, you need to sit down—"

Lawless puts a hand on his arm. "She's fine, Crispus."

They exchange glances, and Allen bites his lips, surveying me doubtfully.

"Stand down, Officer," I state cooly, hand extended. He returns me the badge and my fingers grasp it weakly. Cold, cold sweat is beginning to pool on my palms and forehead.

We continue on. The staging floor is right ahead, studio lights surround the narrow hall, miles of thick, black extension cord weave in ever-merging bundles along the walls. A group of EMS workers sits next to a weeping woman, face smeared in greasepaint. She takes a proffered blanket and rubs her face over and over and over again, the oil based paints slicking and matting to its rough fibers.

We round the corner, tile turning suddenly to hardwood beneath us.

One long, finger-like puddle of jellied blood has drained from under Holden's desk to the very edge of the staging floor. It is dusty and viscous, no longer bright. It ends, dark and ominous, not inches from my weary feet.

_What is this thing you have done? Your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground…_

_Killer_. I am Cain. I can offer nothing to this silent accusation.

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:15 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

All the world's a stage. The curtain opens, the spotlights shining down. Two men lay dead in the middle of the set, and the detective and his trusty sides kick enter the scene, determined, of course, to find whodunit.

But we were in the audience. We saw Act 1. We know even now the Killer lurks backstage until the next scene, when he will enter and kill again. The drama, to us, has lost its appeal…

This is a crime scene. Yet they treat it like a comedy.

Once CSI is done, cat litter will be brought in to soak up the blood. It will sit for maybe half an hour, then shovels will scoop it into biohazard bags to be ceremoniously disposed of at forensics. The Joker nearly decapitated Holden, splintered vertebra naked and exposed to the hot and stuffy air. They will bag him respectfully, taking samples of skin, hair, and blood before tagging his toe and sending him off to the Coroner. Over sixteen people were eye-witnesses, over a million television viewers can vouch for the murder weapon…and yet Gotham City Coroner's Office must make an official investigation. Nora Fields will continue the Joker's work, taking a bone saw to his already mutilated head, brain, heart, lungs and arteries must all be thoroughly examined and documented on…

Baxter's body too will be stripped naked, cut open, blood shunted, organs removed, a corpse defiled. All so they can determine succinctly that he died of 'natural causes.' And yet the criminal responsible escapes to the streets, loosed once again. Gotham's tax dollars at work, protecting her.

Lights flash again, CSI cameras, recording the scene from every angle, every distance…

_Youwereacopyouweresupposedtoprotecthimyouwereacopw etrustedyou—!_

I am disgusted. I understand their anger. I, too, am tired of the corruption and bureaucracy that allow criminals to stalk our streets. _No more,_ they cry, _no more!_

It will be fourteen years to the day come this Christmas Eve. I look down to the dark, accusatory blood beneath my feet. If they call for a savior, how ironic, how bitter that it should be I who answers.


	11. Umbra Incertus

******Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:23 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

Holden.

_Angel._

Both lie broken and dead. I sit heavily on the hardwood floor, fighting a nauseating flow of images and pain. So much blood, so much blood the air is sickly, salty and sweet with its scent—

_Gerald heaves a last sputtering breath. For nearly thirty seconds I stand, trembling in rage, chest heaving, heart racing breath hissing tears streaming—_

_Then I vomit, the knife clattering from my shaking fingers. I reel to my knees, adrenaline consuming me. Blood and urine soak the carpet, seeping out into the hall. Blood pours down the walls, blood is spattered across the ceiling._ _It greases my hands, drips warm and sticky down my face. _

_No regrets. No remorse. Only release…_

In that moment I could never have guessed that this same dark victory would both haunt and carry me for the next thirteen years.

**August 26th**

**14:27 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

Raised voices. Footsteps.

"Alright folks, you know the routine," a man's voice booms. "Tag 'em and bag 'em! Let's get goin'! God, what a mess."

I know that voice: Ronald Probson, MCU commander and world class asshole. "Jesus Christ!" His heavy, bumbling footsteps echo on the hardwood behind me. "What idiot let a _woman_ in here? Great, just great. That's the last thing I need—"

Probson lays a greasy hand on my shoulder. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have one of these nice officers escort you out—"

I rip his hand off, flash him my badge, and flip him the bird.

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:29 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

I stand slowly, stiff, weak…old.

I need help. Bleeding, battered, broken. Even now it is difficult to ask for.

Lawless crosses the floor, ignoring a sputtering, apologetic Probson. "Ready to go?" his hand is tight on my arm.

I nod. He leads me away. I take one final, backwards glance. Behind me, Holden and Baxter lie still and silent.

_AngelAngel! He drops my Angel broken defiled dead blood pours from his small mouth I press my hands to the matte canvas screen, AngelAngelohgodohchristohfucknotAngel—!_

_The screen goes blank. He disappears. Lights flick on, silence sits heavily chairs scraping back Ramirez sobs Lawless stands the door swings open shut open shut open shut…I have no eyes for them, outstretched fingers still tracing the fading image of his perfect face, his impossible eyes…even in death he is so horribly, agonizingly beautiful—_

_Gordon's voice, sincere and mild. "I'm sorry, Paltron."_

_No tears. I am empty. I am spent. Gordon's footsteps echo down the hall. I am alone._

_Angel is dead. No turning back. I made a promise and Memorial was nothing, nothing, it is death this time that calls to me. I caress the screen, one last time, eyes closed, his face still etched in my retinas._

_I wrench away. Door. Hallway. Marble staircase. I blink in the heat and glory of the afternoon sun. It is fading and dying, a deep blood red, smoke pours over the horizon. Gotham. Alive. Angel dead. Hell is no longer the only realm where innocent angels are put cruelly to death._

_The long, parched sidewalk, garbage and debris crunch under my unfeeling feet. I dare not raise my lidless eyes for hope, for understanding, for forgiveness…for peace. I know now there is none._

_Gotham Memorial Hospital construction site. Dumpsters of wreckage, the whine of cranes the drone of drills the clatter of steel on steel the rent, gaping pits of bare earth flickering in the fading sun and rising, choking heat. Fumes rise, ash, and dust over a bloody sun tainting the whole world in blackened blood…_

_Angel. Dead._

_I grip the rusty chain link perimeter fence, steel diamonds etching the skin of my forehead, fingers twisting tearing wrenching at my iron enemy, choking on rage, agony, bitterness. I release the fence, falling, face buried in chaffed hands rust like dried blood I stare, shaking. My guilt is ever before me._

_A black, poisonous desire spreads through me like cancer: I would rather spend an eternity in Hell than one more moment in the presence of a deity who could do this….all this…and yet have gall to pretend Himself my saviour._

_It is three blocks, three long blocks to my apartment, and only darkness awaits me. Yet I am Racheal. I will not be comforted. Call me Mara. God has dealt bitterly with me._

We round the corner, the hardwood floor disappearing again into tile. I tear my eyes away. I came here for closure.

I have found none.

* * *

**August 19th**

**14:36 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

Lawless is a pillar, a rock. He steers me back down the long hallway, camera bulbs flashing, microphones thrust in our faces. "No comment!" Lawless barks, a steadfast answer in a tossing, tumultuous sea of Babel:

_"Ma'amwereyouheredidyouseetheJokerwhathappenedcany outellusanythingofficerwhathappened?"_

"No fucking comment!" Lawless' glare burns over my bowed head, silencing my tormenters.

We walk again the long hallway, and we leave them behind. The sound of rustling paper, upraised voices, and the crackling of microphones dies slowly down. I stagger back down the stairs, leaning heavily on Lawless' arm. I stop dead on the final step.

_Gordon._ Commissioner James Gordon. He is with the GCPD canine unit, a handler juggling the leashes of two yawning bloodhounds to point in my direction. My knee gives out. I sit heavily on the marble tile, the weight of my pain, my guilt, my shame pressing me down. I lower my gaze to the floor. My heart pounds in fear and doubt. I dare not look at him.

"_James Gordon, do you swear to tell the truth, all whole truth and nothing but the truth?"_

"_I swear."_

_My face is in my handcuffed hands, laid against the table top. I raise my eyes slowly through my shaking fingers, glancing up through strings of sweaty hair. Gordon. I feel relief. Gordon. Gordon knows me. Gordon will vouch for me-_

_The prosecuting attorney walks him through December seventh, eighth and ninth. The interview lasts nearly an hour. The whole time, Dent scrawls notes and questions in rapid succession. My stomach is sinking, sinking down as the interview progresses. Gordon refuses to make eye contact. There can only be one reason: he believes me guilty. But Angel's secret must be silenced. I have locked it away behind my lips. Come what may, I must bear this burden, will pay any price—no matter how horrible—to love him…_

Let me help you_. Dent shoves a scrap of paper across the bench. I avert my eyes. _I can't help you if you won't talk to me!

_Surillo nods to Dent. "Are there any questions from the defense?"_

"_Yes, your honor." Dent stands, walking briskly in front of the judge's stand. "You told my colleague that my client's relationship to the boy was 'decidedly out of character,' " he checks his notes. "What did you mean by that?"_

"_Objection, your honor—"_

"_Overruled," Surillo states succinctly._

_Jim sighs heavily, his mild tones barely amplified by the small microphone. "I'd never seen her like that before."_

"_Before the night of December the seventh, had you ever personally witnessed the defendant interact with children?"_

"_No."_

"_And just how then would you determine her relationship to be decidedly 'out of character' if you had no past experience to reference?"_

"_Objection, your honor—"_

"_Overruled," Surillo says coolly. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the question."_

_Jim blinks. "Her behavior was…most unusual."_

"_And by unusual, do you mean sexual?" Dent holds him in an intense stare, a grim smile on his face. "Those are the charges, are they not? Kidnapping, Forcible rape, Child rape, Sodomy of a minor by instrument—"_

"_Mr. Dent, we are all very much aware of the nature of your client's charges!" Prosecution barks, standing to her feet. "Now will you please continue examining the witness?"_

_Surillo raps the gavel, demanding silence. "You, sit down," she orders sternly. Prosecution glowers, lowering herself to the waiting bench with as much composure as she can muster. Surillo turns back to the Witness Stand. "Answer the question, Mr. Gordon."_

"_Yes," Jim whispers._

"_Sorry," Dent says, stepping closer. "But which question were you answering?"_

"_The charges."_

"_And what about the defendant's relationship with the boy? What you witnessed? Would you—on the night of December the seventh, and December the eighth—have described it as sexual?"_

"_I—yes, possibly."_

_Dent paces in front of the stand, and I lower my face again to the table, it's cool, polished surface smooth against my skin. It reflects perfectly, a deep, rich darkness…liquid and light like my Angel's eyes…_

"_Mr. Gordon, you told my esteemed colleague that your partner's relationship to the boy in question was decidedly out of character. You have now amended that to 'ususual' and finally, 'possibly sexual.' What basis can you give us for making this determination? How long have you known the defendant?"_

"_Nearly four years."_

_Dent continues to pace. I have spent countless silent hours in his presence now, and know it is a sign not of nervousness but of thinking. The constant, steady tick of his feet permeates all my memories of our endless interviews._

"_And in what capacity have you known the defendant?"_

"_We were partners. We worked together closely," Jim amends._

"_And are you currently or have you ever been in any way romantically or sexually involved with the defendant," Dent stops again, directly in front of Gordon. "It might seem superfluous to remind you, Mr. Gordon, but you are under oath."_

_Jim's answer is indistinguishable. Even here, with the weight of this jury upon me, I cannot help but heave a bitter smile. Gordon is fiercely loyal to Barbara…and I? I was abandoned by the only man who ever claimed to love me. I love Angel relentlessly. But I will never do something so foolish as to let myself be loved again._

"_Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question," Surillo's voice is cold._

"_No," he states defiantly, leaning forward into the microphone, the first time his mild voice has risen to anything about a whisper._

"_No?" Dent asks in mock surprise. "Then on what experiential basis do you judge her relationship with him to have been 'possibly' sexual?"_

_There are murmurs from the crowd, some angry, some amused. Prosecution looks affronted. "Objection, your honor!"_

"_Overruled!" Surillo barks._

_Gordon is silent._

"_And, if 'possibly' sexual, what apology can you offer as to why these suspicions were not reported immediately to Child Protective Services? You are, in fact, aware that State Law requires the documentation of suspected child abuse or neglect by any licensed teacher, social service worker, government employee, medical personnel…as well as every civilian adult? With negligence of performing these duties constituting complicity in any act of neglect or abuse/"_

"_Objection, your honor! Mr. Gordon has the right to deign self-incriminating information."_

_Surillo leans back in that uncomfortable wooden seat. "Objection noted."_

"_Then," Dent says, dark eyes boring into Surillo's, "I am positive that a separate investigation will be opened looking into possible negligence surrounding this case—" he has balls. And a mouth. If he isn't careful, he'll be called in contempt._

_Surillo agrees_. "_Mr. Dent, you will resume questioning the witness, not me, and will refrain from making such assumptions again in this court."_

_A low murmur eats through the faceless crowd behind me._

"_Yes, your honor," Dent acquiesces gracelessly, turning his attention back to Gordon. "So, Mr. Gordon, you did not immediately report suspicious activity to CPS. Could a possible explanation be that you had no such initial suspicions regarding a sexual relationship between my client and the boy in question?"_

_I raise my eyes to Gordon._

"_Yes, no. I," Gordon stops, unable to look at me. Dent is dancing with his words, hoping to trip Gordon through syntax and style. He has nothing else to go by. I haven't pled, have offered him nothing…I respect him against my will. He is a court appointed attorney, he believes me guilty of a heinous act—an act so terrible and disgusting that I killed its perpetrators—yet he fights a losing battle…like Robert E. Lee, a cause for which he does not stand. Yet he still fights tenaciously with both poise and tact._

_Gordon is no fool. He is silent a long, long time, mulling the question and his answer. Finally he speaks. " I had no such initial suspicions. I thought it was….odd. And out of—" Gordon stops, flushing. "I thought it was odd. Nothing more."_

_Dent nods, feet ticking anxiously at the hardwood flooring. "So you admit your _initial _impression was one of oddness, and that it is only in _reflection_ that you see the defendant's relationship to have been 'possibly sexual?' "_

"_Yes."_

"_And when did these reflections begin, Mr. Gordon? Did you reach this 'possible' conclusion before, or after, you heard what charges the defendant was faced with?"_

"_I, I don't know."_

"_Then think. Did you believe the defendant to engage in predatory behavior, or exhibit pedophilic tendencies, before the night of December the seventh?"_

"_No."_

"_And on December the seventh?"_

"_No."_

"_And on December the eighth? You admittedly spent nearly twenty hours in close contact with both the defendant and the boy in question. Did you experience any suspicions then? Did you witness the defendant in any behaviors that may be compromising or 'possibly' sexual?"_

"_I, I didn't suspect anything then, no."_

"_Do you have reason to be suspicious now? Outside of the alleged accusation? I must remind you the defendant is innocent until proven guilty."_

"_I, yes. In retrospect, yes."_

"_And what, Mr. Gordon, was it about the defendant's behavior that you now consider incriminating?"_

_Gordon is silent. My heartbeats are loud in my ears, the echo of Dent's pacing footsteps. I know what Gordon will say: Angel's head against my breasts, my lips on his face, one hand in his hair…his tiny hands, cherubic smile, sleepy, contented eyes….tears well in my own, dripping fat and round onto the reflective surface of the polished table. Jim how could you think that—? How could anyone think it was anything but what it was—!_

"_Mr. Gordon, you said the defendant was 'holding' the boy in question. Is this the behavior to which you refer?"_

_Gordon nods. Surillo probes him. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question."_

"_Yes," Gordon states._

"_Thank you, Mr. Gordon." Dent continues. "Describe for us what you mean by holding, please."_

_Gordon glances at me involuntarily, shuddering. "She, she—"_

"_Pardon, Your Honor, Mr. Gordon, but I want to set the record clear. By 'she' are you referring to the defendant?"_

"_Y-yes," Gordon says. "Detective Palt—yes. The defendant," he cannot even speak my name without swallowing, as though choking on both guilt and bile._

"_Continue," Surillo orders._

"_She—the defendant—had the boy sitting in her lap."_

"_And that behavior is…suspicious?" Dent queries. "How so?"_

_Gordon lowers his eyes, unable to look out at the crowd, unwilling to face the deluge of cameras. He finds himself as culpable as me. To stand by and do nothing, nothing. He has seen the pictures, the evidence…and it eats him like acid. If there is one thing Jim Gordon will do it is amend his mistake. He will see me charged, he will see me guilty, he will see me brought to justice. He is Honor. That is what he does._

"_I had no reason to be suspicious then. But I had worked in SVU before Homicide."_

"_And under what circumstances did you leave SVU?"_

"_I was transferred-voluntarily," Gordon whispers. "I no longer wished to work with such cases."_

"_And do you believe your experience with SVU is what caused you to become suspicious of your partner's behavior?"_

"_Yes."_

_I know it bitterly and all too well. I have the perfect profile: Single. Good standing member of society. Community Service Worker. Respected. Rejected. Three psychologists analyzed my silence, my apartment, my medical history…. my husband left me and now I'm so fucking alone I MUST crave sexual attention in any manner that will make me powerful and dominant…I can't have kids will never have kids therefore I MUST be a sociopath, molesting child-hater…_

_Gordon relates this all to Dent, as succinctly and objectively as possible. He even calls for the physical evidence to be brought back in, pictures passed to the jury, slides of skin cells, hair, a bag of child's clothing… a bloody sheet, a scarlet soaked mattress, the medical findings of Angel's examination-_

_The audience sits, faces alternately stony or weeping. Barbara Gordon sobs openly, face twisted and buried in her trembling hands. Judge Surillo has turned a whiter shade of pale, prim lips pressed, jaw set. Every mother, every woman in this room is shaking in rage or sorrow. Or both._

_Gordon goes through them carefully. Methodically. I recognize his style. I realize it was he who collected the data, he who swabbed my shower my sinks my counters, he who supervised the removal of my mattress, coating it in plastic, driving it to evidence, he who interviewed the ER personnel, he who collected the bloody sheet, he who traced my car….and all in a bitter and vain attempt to somehow find me innocent._

_After fifteen minutes, Dent interrupts him. "With witnesses like you, Mr. Gordon, one hardly needs a prosecuting attorney." Prosecution glares, but Surillo silences her with one imperial glance. Dent resumes his pacing, thinking, contemplating, trapped. He has no more room in which to run, no space left to maneuver. "And you are convinced, are you not, Mr. Gordon, that there can be no alternative explanation?"_

"_I have looked for one," Jim whispers. "God as my witness I have looked for one."_

_Dent is silent, his conscience catching up with him. He can no more pretend that the details of my case do not bother him. Even the ever present scuffling sound of his shoes has finally and terribly ceased. He raises his eyes and speaks._

_His next questions—and Gordon's answers—will seal my guilt._

"_You purport to have known the defendant well?"_

"_I believe I may have been the closest person to her, yes."_

"_One final question, Mr. Gordon. Just one. Consider carefully-as a partner, your relationship with the defendant, and as an officer experienced in these mattes-the presented evidences and testimonies. Can you or do you both _personally_ and _professionally_ find the defendant to be guilty of the crimes she is charged with?"_

_Gordon removes his glasses, wiping his sweating face on his shirt. He reaches for a Styrofoam cup and drains it. He replaces the glasses with shaky hands and clears his throat. "The evidences are…undeniable." A sudden hush has fallen, a silence so grave even Jim's mild voice carries, loud enough for all to hear. It is a death knell in my heart. He looks directly into my eyes, piercing me, pinning me both silent and still. I dare not move, dare not blink, dare not breathe lest I betray myself here at the end. I am guilty—must be guilty—to silence Angel's secret. "Testimony of neighbors as well as GCPD vehicle tracking place her at the scene of the kidnapping. Testimony as well as hospital security again place her concretely at Gotham Memorial Hospital…and the, the overwhelming, the sheer….volume of physical evidence-the boy's skin cells, hair, and blood-collected both from her person and from the Philadelphia apartment—"_

_His voice breaks. He chokes back tears, removing his glasses again and wiping them away. "I am, convinced, in light of these evidences, that Officer…that she, that the defendant, my partner, Officer Guinevere Paltron, returned to the house on Decmember eighth, kidnapped the boy from his remaining parent, killed four eye-witnesses, then proceeded to take him back to her apartment where she…_abused_ him, before delivering him to Emergency Services personnel at Gotham Memorial Hospital."_

_A long, trembling sigh shivers through my lips. Twin tears burn down my cheeks._

_Dent closes his eyes, face lifted towards the ceiling. He had counted on friendship's weakness...had hoped for professionally, not personally. Had overlooked Jim Gordon's unbiased, unwavering, uncompromising justice. It is now too late to retract the question._

_Dent sighs. "Mr. Gordon, answer the question, please. Do you find the defendant to be guilty as charged?"_

"_Beyond all shadow of doubt," Gordon whispers. "Either reasonable...or simply hoped for."_

Now Gordon is again in front of me. I am silent, head bowed. I dare not raise my eyes to his face, to look at a man so fiercely loyal yet honorable beyond compromise or the shadow of suspicion. Gordon pities, yes. He understands.

But he can never condone.

I can stop this here. Confess, or forever remain silent, hoping in this chaos my crimes will go unnoticed…

But in my heart I know that Angel's killer cannot remain unpunished.

* * *

**August 26th**

**14:40 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

Gordon surveys me closely, absorbing every detail from my haggard face to my bloodied knee. For a long moment he is speechless. Lawless lays a hand on his arm, pulling him away. "Jim, listen—"

I shudder as false relief eats through me. This is but the eye of the storm. I will still have to face unwavering justice of Jim Gordon.

"Miss, are you sure you're alright?" It's Fox's voice. I turn slowly, eyes refocusing on his dark face. He and Wayne have been here in the Atrium this entire time. Fleetingly I wonder what it is they are here for…

"You don't look…well, Miss…Paltron?" Wayne begins hesitantly, sitting next to me. "I'd really feel better if you saw a doctor-you're a police officer, you know? If I leave before EMS gets to you isn't that considered a hit and run? Or am I excused because you're the one who ran off?" It is a failed attempt at humor. I close my eyes, and lean against the banister. Exhaustion, like heavy, irresistible waves rolls slowly over me.

Wayne lowers his voice, all vestige of humor vanished. "You wouldn't have seen a young woman in there, twenty-five or twenty-six? Blonde? Cameron Shaw?"

I shake my head no, falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. I catch snatches of Lawless' conversation. I hear Lawless growling psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…_for God's sake, Jim, suicidal_—_!_ Wayne hears the last word, I can tell. He tenses suddenly, shifting, an inadvertent, sidelong glance in the shrinking silence.

"…Connolly's death," Jim answers lowly, almost pitying.

Connolly. Jimmy. _Angel—!_

_Gerald lies dead, I fall to my knees, the knife clattering from my hand. I am covered in urine and blood, chest heaving, throat burning, tears splashing. Destroy the evidence, Gerald had yelled. Blood drips off the bed covers, hot and heavy down my back—_

_Angel, not Angel no not dead not Angel too! I drag myself up the covers, staring across the bed frame—_

_That bastard lies there, pants-less and dead. Neck twisted unnaturally, all remnants of his laughter gone. I must blink several times before the truth finally sears into my unbelieving heart: my Angel isn't there._

"_Angel?" I whisper anxiously. "Angel!"_

_Frantically I lift the bed skirt, peering under and across. I run to the other side, slipping on slick, red blood, saturated carpet squelching under my feet—_

_I shove the bed away from the wall. I rip the covers back, I tear my hair gone gone he is gone! Angel what did they do to you—!_

Something hot splatters down my face. I start from my sleep, putting my hands hastily to my cheeks. It isn't blood. It's tears. My tears. For the second time today I find myself weeping.

* * *

**August 19th**

**14:43 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

Weeping.

I rummage through my pocket, scrabbling fingers around the Tylenol. My forehead is flushed, eyes burning, room blackening. I am shaking. I have lost so much blood—so much blood!—and have only started with the antibiotics…_Angel is crying, crying I can hear his soft, chirping voice, words unformed-my heart leaps, he is alive!_

Hallucinating.

A hand is laid again on my arm as I pop four of the small white pills and swallow. I turn my head in surprise. It isn't Lawless.

It's Wayne.

"You sure I can't get you to see a doctor?"

A soft moaning sound. Small, tiny sobs, muffled and faint.

I try to speak, to say I appreciate his concern, I may even accept his offer…instead I face him in horror, nails digging into his hand, paling in shock-

_Angel! Angel! Where are you? ANGEL—!_

I hear it again. Faint, muffled sobs. So low I thought I was imagining them. "Can you hear that?" I hiss.

His concerned hazel eyes travel from my face to Fox's, his thin lips pressing together, his silence saying everything: _psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…for God's sake, Jim, suicidal—!_

Wayne and Fox believe I am having a mental break down, perhaps Lawless does as well. I am petrified by Angel's cries. And I am terrified they might be right.

Wayne's grip tightens on my arm. But that sobbing grows only louder, more insistent, like a newborn's cry…and that preterhuman, monstrous maternal instinct consumes me in a terrible rush of adrenaline and doubt.

_Angel!_

I jump off the step, hitting the floor in a desperate, staggering run. Angel is here I know Angel is here I can hear him, my aching, protesting body crying out sharply with every labored, bloody step—

"Hey, _Hey!"_ Wayne has tightened his grip on my arm, he is so strong, so fucking strong he grabs me around the waist I bite, kick, scratch, shin-scrape, elbow him in the solar plexus with all my might, struggling loose and careening down the hall.

"Paltron!" Lawless shouts after me. "Paltron!"

_I tear the mattress off the bed, rip the dresser from the wall. I open the closet-nothing! I run back to the hall, long shards of plaster and wood cut from the baseboards, dripping blood and bits of flesh, I find whole fingernails embedded in the doorframe—_

_But no Angel._

"_Angel!" I shout,"Angel!"_

I double back over the slick floor, wheeling left, sliding on my own blood. Doors pass open shut vents from the ceiling low moaning sounds—a janitor's closet, a staircase, a break room—the sobs are getting louder. _I'm coming Angel, I'll find you, no matter what I'll find you—_

_Retracing my steps, swearing, cursing, praying God where is he what have you done with him—! I roll the mutilated corpses over, sprays of blood around my fingers dead faces flopping. They are heavy and pliable, soft and yielding…but Angel isn't among them._

"_Angel!" I scream. "Angel!" But nothing greets me but horrible, horrible silence._

"Paltron, what the fuck!" Lawless and Gordon grab me from behind, I twist, tear, writhe. Their strong arms are under mine, lifting me, slamming me into the wall—

"Put me down—!" teeth gnashing, feet flailing Wayne joins them _he is so fucking strong! "Please, please, oh God AngelAngelAngel! _I can hear him I can hear him can't you hear him? Get the fuck off of me! Let me go to him—just let me go—!"

"Paltron, Paltron, _look at me!"_ Jim orders sternly. "There's nothing there!"

_I fall back on my knees, heart sinking, blood spattered, horribly spent, entirely lost, surrounded by the savagery of my sins. I rock slowly, lilting, hands to my horrified face. Angel…Angel…._

_That small, chirping sob. I crawl slowly, disbelieving, redeemed towards the open, cluttered closet…it comes again, faint and desperate. I begin to dig, knocking aside shoes and piles of clothes, hundreds upon hundreds of unlabeled DVD's…my hand finds something sticky in the darkness, warm and phlegmatic—_

_I shudder, shaking my hand in revulsion, wiping my fingers hurriedly on the nearest shirt, desperate to get the semen off-I stop short. I have reached the back of the closet. And still no Angel._

_That tiny sob comes again. Muffled. Trapped. I run my sickened fingers over the seams of the walls, the door, the floor…I find a bulge. What feels like old, worn denim caught in the angle between the back wall and the right. The crack is so small, I cannot grasp it with my scrabbling nails. I crawl out, fingers searching for the familiar handle of the knife._

_I wedge the blade in the crack, wiggling, wrestling, it grows wider and wider. "Angel!" I am screaming, sobbing. "Angel!" It cracks open I tear, claw scratch pull wrest open this heinous compartment, pneumatic seal pssssting—_

_A tiny, trembling foot withdraws into the yawning darkness. I am shaking with rage with release I peer in, my Angel lays curled and cramped in a tiny, sound proof cell only eighteen inches tall, his pants still twisted and shoved down over his feet, one ripped hem caught in the seal of the door. If it hadn't been for their haste and carelessness, I never would have found him._

"Paltron, Paltron, _listen to me!_" Jim says urgently. "Paltron, you're imagining things-"

"I _heard_ him, Jim! I fucking _heard _him!" I stare desperately into his eyes his face searching praying begging for any other answer. His face is haggard, grey circles deep and dark under his drooping, dogged eyes. My lips part, face blanching.

Gordon—whatever he is, whatever he may think of me—would never lie. Not even now.

My lungs are aching I am coughing, I can't fucking breathe. My right knee buckles as they release the pressure on my arms. I tumble down the wall, collapsing to the floor. I am wretched, miserable. Footsore and heartsick.

Lawless, Wayne, and Fox exchange wondering glances. "He isn't here, Paltron," Jim says gently, sincerely, slowly kneeling beside me. "He's gone."

My heart falls again, sick and bitter. He's right: Angel is dead. And yet, yet I still feel his panting breath, his warmth, his tears…

_Angel is sobbing, sobbing I slink into that horrifying space his face in my chest pull him closer kiss him harder safe in my arms they will never hurt you again no one will hurt you ever again, Angel, I promise._

Holden and Baxter lie upstairs, dead. Murdered by Angel's killer. I heave a laugh that is a sob, both black and bitter. So much for all my promises…

Wayne, Fox, and Lawless are all panting, resting hands on knees, wiping sweat across their foreheads. Gordon lays a timid, hesitant touch on my arm as Wayne grimaces and presses a hand against his aching stomach.

Then a soft, muffled sob echoes undeniably through the hallway.

* * *

**August 19th**

**14:52 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

We bang open the bathroom door, Lawless whipping out his service pistol as I run to the second stall, shoving it open—

A young woman sits up, gasping in shock and surprise. I don't notice her tears her red rimmed eyes her pale and blotchy skin. I can realize only one thing: It isn't Angel.

Staggering, dazed. It is as though he has been ripped from my arms yet again. The room is spinning, spinning I am spent, tired, worn. I sit heavily on a sagging sink, soapy scum and water eating through the back of my pants, the haunting ghost of my barrenness. Vision blurry I rest my head in my hands. My knee throbs, pulsing and burning. It isn't him.

The four men squeeze towards the tiny stall, stepping over the tangle of my legs.

"Shaw!" Wayne whispers. "Jesus Christ, Shaw what happened?"

TV 18 Reporter Cameron Shaw lies sobbing on the floor, the reek of vomit rising from the open toilet.

Wayne climbs awkwardly to her, pulling her into his arms and soothing her tears.

_"He, he was my fiancée and he left me for Natalie and so I said so I told him I said I wished he was dead!" _She balls her fists into his Armani shirt, stretching the dark fabric.

"Hey, it's alright. Okay? You're fine. It's alright, Shaw. It's over—"

"I didn't want him to _die_—!" she chokes the last word, a sob and stomach acid escaping through her clenched and grinding teeth.

"Shaw, Shaw, _Cameron_," Wayne grips her shoulders in his huge hands. "It's over. Okay? It's all _over—_"

But he is wrong. It isn't over. It is far from being over…

His voice is calm and low, soothing her tears. One large, spidery hand gently rubbing her back. He helps her stand, supporting her tiny frame, looking to Gordon. "I'll take her back to the station, if that's acceptable."

Gordon nods his consent as Wayne and Fox leave the cramped restroom, the young reporter still sniffling in misery.

The door swings shut. I am trapped. Just Lawless, Gordon, and I…

* * *

**August 26th**

**15:00 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

My silence can only condemn me. "Any word on the schools?" I finally whisper, raising my aching eyes to Gordon's. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"No," he states, leaning against the opposite wall, breathing deeply and slowly, eyes shut, head rolling back. "We've got bomb squads out, searching what we believe to be his primary targets. Miller's got National Guard helping with that...and evacuations. But there's still fifteen minutes left until school gets out. We're not through this until then."

I remember the ferries. Lawless and I were with the Arkham inmates. I shudder. "BB and..." I can't say _Jimmy._ "and your son?"

He smiles grimly. "Home. Sick. Both caught strep from a birthday party."

Lawless stares at us, head cocked to the left, one brow raised. He is shrewd. So shrewd.

I sit, shaking in pain and doubt, my guilt again before me. Water drips, drips, drips in the sink behind me, punctuating the silence. Finally, mercifully, Lawless speaks. "What now?"

Gordon finally sighs, opening his eyes again, becoming brisk and businesslike. "In light of the..." he casts a glance at Lawless, "_circumstances_."

Thirteen years of bitterness, regret, anger, hatred, and resentment fall deep and heavy between us. I have long since stopped being Gordon's friend...and yet I had to have been blind not to see that he was still and always mine.

"In light of the circumstances, I'm granting you a temporary leave of absence for...health reasons." He could have terminated me, suspended me...written me up for psych. But he lets me walk, unscathed...yet more of his compassion I do not deserve. I feel guilty, horribly guilty, for accepting his mercy now when it should be judgment instead. But there will be time enough for that. When the Joker is dead, when Angel is avenged...I will turn myself in. I promise, Jim. I _promise._

"Thank you," the words slip from my lips, twin tears leaking down my face. I slip further down the sink, burning face laid against the cool plastic of the paper towel dispenser. My eyes are shut. I am blind. Only sound can decipher what happens next. A ringing phone, a curse, the door bangs open and shut. I blink. Gordon is gone_. In his place is a small boy with dark, lachrymose eyes, wet curls bleeding fat drops of water down his smooth, silken skin, so pale and eerie against the blackness of the oversized T-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, his tiny feet bare, a slow puddle of water pooling around them, between his toes…_

I blink again. The boy is gone. Lawless stands in front of me, surveying me cautiously. Fleetingly I wish he would take me in his arms and let me cry against him as weak and as wretched as Shaw.

But he does not.

He needs no answers. No explanations. He trusts Gordon. Trusts me-trusts me to be as strong and independent as I have always been. It is better this way. Lawless is strength, Gordon is honor. Yet there are times—desperate times—when even these best of virtues can seem both callous and cruel.


	12. Aurora

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**Tuesday, August 20th**

**23:46 EST**

**(Former Lt.) Governor Stephanie Miller's Inauguration Address**

**_Citizens of Gotham, of our great state, and of our great nation:_**

Great? Yes, perhaps. Great as many have been Great before. Alexander, stretching his hand like his shadow across all of Asia, both merciless and cruel. Great like Xerxes, the threat of his empire overshadowing Greece. Yet I am mortality. Thermopylae. I am Leonidas. It is I who say to the raging seas of men that hitherto you shall come, but no further. O great nation, great people-can you not learn from your many mistakes? Can you not rather be good? Yes, truly you are both forgetful and arrogant as you are great.

**_It is with both regret and sorrow that I accept the office of Governor. In light of this unprecedented crisis and the devastating loss of public service personnel in the Legacy Bombing, I have placed Gotham City under the jurisdiction of the National Guard…. indefinitely. To her citizens, I ask that you cooperate fully with emergency personnel and other measures taken to ensure your safety. To the federal government, I ask that you send whatever disaster relief you can, whatever aid you can…and that you take whatever measures necessary to bring those responsible to justice._**

Justice. Retribution. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Innocents lie dead all across the globe, the bi-product of irrepressible, unfeeling consumerism. Your unborn infants murdered. Children enslaved. Trafficked. Sold. Whole peoples slaughtered as you stand idly by, the consumers of sweat shops, workhouses, every form of cruelty and slavery… If you ask whatever measures necessary to bring justice…know then She has already been served.

**_To my fellow citizens, I can ask only for your prayers._**

Prayers? To whom? Your industry and markets and stocks that drive you to your bloodlust? Yes, infidels, insolents, insatiates, pray. Perhaps your gods will hear you.

**_But it is also with hope that I take this oath and this office. And in this time, this most dark and desperate of times, I must remind you again of our struggle over the last year to bring peace and justice to the city of Gotham. Harvey Dent promised us the dawn would come. Governor Richards promised us she was here. She is now our responsibility, our duty. The lot has fallen to us to defend and uphold her._**

As is ours. Great and good are seldom the same cause. You are the eagle of authoritarianism. We, the yen and yang. A separation of powers. A system…of checks and balances.

**_So I must ask you all to remain strong though it seems like the shadow of night is looming yet again. As your governor, I promise you this: We will rescue. We will rebuild. We will restore. And we will not relent._**

Nor we. Fledgling nation with so much potential, we will refine you, purify you, make you a light and a beacon, a hope for men…

**_We cannot afford to think ourselves alone in this struggle. The forces of tyranny, of terror, and of anarchy have long sought to over thrown safety, civility, and community._**

Tyranny? Terror? Anarchy? These the free peoples choose for themselves. Democracy is not a right, but a privilege, to those to whom it may be entrusted. The aroma of your corruption and your scandal, your bribery and your deceit rises heavy above you.

**_Every generation has had its testing point. Litsutania. Pearl Harbor. September 11th. We are not alone-and history will look to this moment and judge us. What will they see? Cowardice? Or Courage?_**

Know then your generation is chosen.

**_Let them find courage._**

And peace-let _this_ be the war to end all wars: a Pax Americana.

**_We cannot afford to despair. Darker and more difficult times lie both before…and ahead. The greater the darkness, the blacker the night, the more bitter the struggle…the more glorious the morning and more sweet the victory. Let me remind you of the words of a man who dared to hope, who dared to dream of peace and prosperity. Not Governor Richards, nor Harvey Dent, but another living in a time much darker and even more desperate than our own. These were great men-men who saw their nations and their people through years of sorrow and war and grief…. Great men, for great times. They faced a holocaust more deadly than our own that plagued not a city, nor a nation, but a world. And yet theirs was remembered not as the darkest, but as the greatest generation:_**

**_These are not dark days: these are great days - the greatest days our country has ever lived._**

A great moment. A turning point. Expedient that one must die to save the nation. Gotham, the die is cast. Your lot is chosen. These will be dark days indeed. But your suffering may yet save your sisters…

**_Those were the words of Prime Minister Winston Churchill, as the shadow the Second World War loomed over England. So let us, like he, have the audacity to hope. May our generation too, rise to this greatest of occasions…._**

Or you will fall. For our discipline will turn harshly to judgment and the wrath of our fury will fall on your cities until your ruin lies heavily upon you and the vengeance of the peoples the mobs the starving enslaved and sick is both utter and complete. Yes, rise. Rise now, great nation, great people….

**_And may we not be found wanting._**

…else they will lament you, crying _Fallen, fallen is Babylon the Great! _Rise now. Or never rise again.

* * *

**_The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming_**

**_—Harvey Dent, Gotham City District Attorney._**

* * *

**_Twenty-four hours previously…_**

**24:06 EST**

**Sisters of Mercy Memorial Garden**

Whispers. Sobs. Hymns. Prayers. The sounds flickered like the dying votives strewn around the crumbling angel. They said many of the dead were children. Students. Teachers. Firemen and City Cops.

Her brother.

Maggie Kyle wept aloud, all traces of dignity and solemnity forgotten. Face in her hands she fell on her knees, ripping the wimple from her short-cropped hair. The jagged, abandoned ruins of the Sisters of Mercy Foster Home rose eerily in the moonlight, shrouds of smoke rising above them once again.

_No, not her brother! God please, no! Was once not enough-!_

Sister Teresa Margaret took a deep, shaking breath, running her hands through her hair, wiping the salty tears away. She sat, lips pressed, head hung heavily in a pregnant silence. Abruptly she stood,, trembling, forcing her way back through the mourning crowd, walking firmly through the Convent's heavy doors. There were the sick and injured-the living-to be tended to:

_Let the dead bury their dead. You, follow me._

She reached out a trembling hand for the next victim, seating her, with a cool rag beginning to clean her many wounds. The sister's fingers nimbly threaded a needle, knotting the cord, and pinched together the torn flesh.

A soothing voice, a jerking limb. The sister began to sew.

* * *

**24:13 EST**

**Ground Zero, Gotham City**

Helicopters thrummed, stadium lights humming, sirens shrieking smoke hissing. For blocks upon blocks the rubble lay in deadly mountains of concrete and glass.

Commissioner James Gordon staggered slowly back to the Tracking Room, Lawless by his side, one hand gripped firmly around his arm. The Detective was taking no chances, steering the smaller man firmly through the wreckage to the waiting squad car, the other arm raised, gun at the ready. They had lost Finch. Loeb. Surillo. Richards and Dent…

…_Paltron and Connolly…_

Tears pricked his eyes. They had lost so fucking many—! But no more. No more corrupt cops betraying their trust. The Detective would remain fiercely by his side for the next fourteen hours.

Lawless opened the Tracking Room door with a strong hand, hauling Gordon up the three short steps. He seated Gordon, forcing a Styrofoam cup of water into his trembling hands. "Drink this," the Detective ordered, two fingers on the Commissioner's wrist, timing his heart beats and his breathing.

Both were elevated, his muscles tensed. Lawless methodically asked him his name, age, address and phone number. Jim's voice was weak and shaky, but unslurred. Finally content, the Detective ran his hands through his dusty, sweaty hair, laying his head back with a slow sigh.

"He okay?" Milton asked cautiously, eyes rimmed with red.

"Fine," Lawless grunted. "It seems to be more of a nervous breakdown, not a stroke."

Fred Milton shuddered at the thought. If there was one surely, one security in this mess, it was that Commissioner Gordon would be there to get them through…

But Aaron Lawless held no such illusions.

* * *

**24:32 EST**

**1408 Maravilla Court**

"Hijo de puta! What was that, 'mano? What the fuck was that!" Jesus Alejandro Guerrero spat into the phone. "What the fuck was that!"

"You have to believe me, man. No sé! Solamente teniamos planes para el gubernator-!"

_Two o'clock. The rockets had gone off, the governor was dead…things had all gone according to plan…_

Jesus hung up the phone, throwing it across the room. He was the jefe. El macho. El Hombre. He was la Voz. He made the plans…Goddamnit he was supposed to be in control! Meroni had warned him about dealing with the Joker. Said he was too unpredictable. He couldn't be trusted. He had no fucking allegiances…

"_There's only one reason you would come to me, Mr. Guerrero. You have a new Friend. A powerful Friend. And with this Friend, you believe you can create a monopoly."_

_That bastardo arrogante. Self-righteous pig. The Mafioso was too afraid-didn't have the cojones to make a deal with the Joker. Too bad for him. Los Reyes had always gotten rich from what the mob was too weak-stomached to do…_

Two o'clock. It had seemed too good to be true. The Latin Kings were rising to power, picking up the reigns where the Meroni family had left off…And then the Legacy fell. The building fucking _fell._ Thirty-five thousand people in Goddamn Gotham Plaza.

But who the Hell could have known? Was _he_ responsible for those deaths? And _what the fuck was he supposed to do now?_

**24:33**

He had promised to free the Bastard. And he had run out of time. As far as he was concerned, let the god-fucking killer rot in that shit hole. For now, the clown was in Arkham, probably having the biggest fucking laugh of his life at Jesus' expense. _You naïve, ambitious little fuck,_ Jesus snarled to himself, warding off the evil eye_. Mama warned you! You think you could outsmart el Diablo?_

…_a Schemer_, the Joker would have called him.

The clown was still safely in Arkham. For now. But it would only be a matter of time. And if you didn't uphold your end of a bargain with the Devil, he would track you down.

_Mierda_, Jesus breathed. He was either guilty…or dead.

He crossed himself, then reassembled the cell phone's battery and case. It was a little cracked, but still intact. Hands shaking with both fury and fear, he dialed the Bitch's number.

* * *

**24:35 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Dr. Harleen Quinzel didn't bother to look at the number on her phone. "You're late."

Guerrero's voice came agitatedly through the speakers. "We've experienced some unforeseeable delays—"

But the psychiatrist just shook her blonde head, staring out the open bay windows to the rising clouds of smoke in the distance. "Interesting. You should have planned for minor complications."

Excuses. Curses. Pleadings.

"You're still fucking late," she shut the phone without another word.

* * *

**24:41 EST**

**Chateau D'If, Penthouse Suite**

Salazar Meroni blew another ring of Cuban cigar smoke as the cell phone vibrated on his desktop yet again. A cruel smile played upon his lips as he checked his watch. Repentant little Jesus Guerrero, calling to beg clemency and protection. Of course he would offer it, extend his hand to the fledgling crime lord, welcome him graciously into his fold…

He took great delight in contemplating the loyalty of one of Gotham's leading gangs…and one of his chief competitors. The thought filled him with pride and power: the Latin Kings, puppets in the palm of his hand…

The little fuck had learned his lesson. Soon, very soon, he would need protection. But for now…Meroni would let him stew in the reek of his fear and guilt. Thirty-five thousand people was a steep price to pay, even for this.

"_Jesus Guerrero. What a pleasure…and a surprise. This is most...unexpected."_

_The ambitious little fuck had strolled into his restaurant like he owned the world, three of his ill-dressed henchmen in tow. They were tattooed, pierced, wearing leather and chains. Punks. Amateurs. Children. They lacked the class and intelligence of Gotham's refined criminal elite…and they were either too stupid or arrogant to know it._

_A black briefcase was placed on the table, unlocked with five sharp clicks._

"_Ah. A business transaction," the Mafioso laid down his cigar. "And here I thought you were here for pleasure."_

"_I need a favor, hombre," the Puerto Rican punk leaned back casually against the leather of the booth. "A big one."_

"_Indeed. And one so desperate that you would be willing to come to me," Meroni said dryly._

"_Cause you can deliver, 'mano. I've been askin' around," that insolent pup flashed him a gold-glinted grin._

_Meroni stirred his wine lazily. "Mr. Guerrero, I am no fool. I do not play games. I do not fuck around. I am not fooled by your…false subservience or lack thereof. We are rivals, are we not?" he asked disinterestedly._ "_There's only one reason you would come to me, Mr. Guerrero. You have a new Friend. A powerful Friend. And with this Friend, you believe you can create a monopoly."_

"_Ah. I see he is…how do you say? A mutual Friend?"_

_"An acquaintance," Meroni replied, leaning forward across the table. "And one better left alone."_

_The small punk leered at him. "You ain't my mama. So don't tell me what to do, yeah? You have the balls to make a hundred grand today or not, hombre?"_

_Meroni cocked his head, a knowing smile twitching on his lips. So arrogant…so blind. "It depends."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"On the favor. What you request may be considerably more costly than a mere hundred thousand."_

_Jesus chuckled. "Think of it as…how do you say? A down payment."_

_Meroni nodded gracelessly, tipping his head back and taking another swallow of wine. He counted the bills disinterestedly, then shut and locked the case with the proffered key._

_"You can keep this…confidential?"_

_"Again, in principle. We may have to negotiate the price."_

_Jesus grinned, shaking his head. "I need to get…here." The diminutive man laid a map on the table, showing Gotham City Plaza. One large, ringed finger tapped impatiently on the Fountainhead, an upscale conference center across the plaza from the Wayne Legacy Foundation._

_He rolled the map up quickly, but could not hide the long, white line running down the newly re-christened Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway. That line could only mean one thing:_

_A parade._

_And a parade could only mean one thing: an assassination attempt. And Stop the Violence was just weeks away…_

_Meroni chuckled at the irony. "Impossible."_

_"You said—"_

_"Physically, no. But financially? Impossible. At least…impossible for one hundred grand."_

_Jesus laughed humorlessly. "You extorting bastard! How much?"_

_"Two million."_

_"Hijo de puta," Jesus stood. "You're fucking kidding me—!"_

_Under the table, one of his henchmen had begun to finger a long, white knife._

_"Might I remind you I need not kill you," the Mafioso stated coolly, taking another sip of wine. "I merely need inform the police that someone is…very interested in the death of a public figure and you're whisked off to County, Mr. Guerrero. Possibly even to the FBI. The Patriot Act…is still in effect."_

_"Fuck. That's what you do. Go fuck your madre."_

_Salazar chuckled humorlessly. "Mr. Guerrero, you are within weeks of proximity to the target date…and have little time to develop other contingencies. Supply and demand, really. What you ask, I alone can offer you. Secondly, I have a source, a well-placed, highly productive source whose information at best can be used sparingly, if not at all. I value this source, especially after the prosecutions and purgings last year through the District Attorney's Office…and it's information is invaluable to me. I will not risk this source for paltry pennies, Mr. Guerrero. That is the business side of this transaction. Clearly, you've much to learn about these matters…_

_And then there's the matter that you're an arrogant, uppity shit. That alone will cost you. Three million. That's my lowest offer."_

_Guerrero bit his fingernail and spat it on the floor. "Three million? Three million dollars…that is one hell of a source, hey? Your wife sleeping' with the Commissioner, yeah?"_

_"The price can steepen," Meroni stated coolly. "At any time."_

_"Done," Jesus said._

_Meroni chuckled. "Three million. Half is to be wired to an offshore account this evening…the other half, upon completion. I feel you will not find me unreasonable in that regard."_

_"And if you can't deliver?"_

_"I will," Meroni said confidently. "But if not, you keep the second half."_

_"That…" Guerrero cracked his neck, that impish, arrogant smile never leaving his lips, "seems to be in order."_

_"Good. I will contact you with the routing numbers and account this evening. I will call at six thirty tonight. Be ready."_

_Their hands met, eyes locked. The Latino squeezed tightly, rising, trying to regain the feeling of control. Meroni needed no such childish gestures. The little shit was in league with the Joker. In a few weeks time, he would come crawling back here, begging for forgiveness…and protection._

_You won't be so cocky then, will you, you insolent shit? Meroni mused. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Guerrero."_

_"Yeah. Buenas días," that self-satisfied smirk never left that olive face._

_"Ciao," Meroni returned coolly. "Oh, and Mr. Guerrero?" the Latino punk turned in the doorframe. "Don't say I didn't warn you."_

_That ringed middle finger made a gesture behind the Reyes Latinos leader's slickened black curls. Maroni smiled knowingly and ordered another wine._

Salazar Meroni let out another ringed puff of smoke, basking in the musky flavor of the cigar. It was heady and strong…perfect and ripe. The phone rung again, yet he continued to sit, head back, breathing in the sweet, intoxicating smoke.

As the last tone died, he opened his eyes. Outside the thick, bulletproof glass windows, barely visible through a grey-brown patina of concrete dust, the smoke, lights and sirens rising from the Legacy tore through the empty city skyline. Meroni crushed the cigar into the ashtray, extinguishing the flame.

Black ashes spilled over the porcelain lip, scattering across his desk.

There were powers in Gotham that even the vilest and cruelest of men would never wake from their slumber. But ambition, Maeoni contemplated darkly, was so _blinding…_

That impotent pup had much to learn.

* * *

**01:08 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

The door swung open, and a shriek echoed through the Tracking Room.

"Fuck man, what's your _problem_!" Milton shouted.

Anna Ramirez stood, white in shock, horrified eyes staring at the revolver not inches from her forehead.

Heartbeats. Silence. It seemed to last an eternity….

With a slow sigh Lawless lowered the gun. "You can't be too paranoid," he growled. "Sorry, Anna."

"Jesus Christ, man," Milton whispered, helping the shell-shocked Latina up the stairs. He sat her down next to Jim, shaking and sobbing, eyes still bulging in horror and disbelief. _As if the Legacy wasn't enough…._ Milton muttered, returning to his post in front of the monitors. They had set up several aerial cams, and the radio was still full of chatter-

He turned to Ramirez. "You alright?" But she only began sobbing in earnest.

Milton cringed, casting a furtive glance to Lawless. The Detective had resumed his post at the door, ready to challenge any who entered. He spared the weeping woman one last look, then returned to his task. He wasn't…overtly sexist-deep down inside Fred Milton tried to be politically correct. He knew women could be strong… Hell, Paltron had kicked his ass on numerous occasions…

But something down in his gut told him—all badassery notwithstanding-that this fucking war zone was no place for a woman.

* * *

**01:26 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Eyes dull, hair lank, the adrenaline let down was worse than any caffeine withdrawal, any hangover. Surgical Nurse Amy Lawless vomited again in the porcelain sink, gloved hands still bloody from a LLE amputation…

Drearily she wiped her aching eyes with the back of her hand, then her mouth. "Shit!" she hissed as the rubbery taste of the glove registered in her mind. She ripped the gloves off, heaping soap onto her bare hands and dousing her face, her eyes, her open mouth with the sizzling foam-

_Hepatitis. Syphilis. HIV…_She shuddered, scrubbing harder, pumping the dispenser in frustration and fear. Finally, finally she ripped a sheet of brown paper towel from the wall, blotting her face, her hands, her hair. Face dripping, eyes raw and aching, the alkaline taste of soap coating her tongue, Amy Lawless raised her eyes again to the mirror—

Chavez was standing behind her.

* * *

**01:34 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Sound. Light. Consciousness. Jim Gordon blinked heavily, mind coming slowly out of a hazy fog. Lawless stood near the doorway, tense and uptight, weapon drawn. His hazel eyes shifted nervously towards him.

"You alright, Jim?"

He nodded shakily. "I, I think so."

"Good," the Detective nodded, tossing the Commissioner his cell phone. "Call Barb, okay?"

A sharp, sudden pang struck him as Barb's voice came tinny and mechanical through the speakers. Amy. Ian. Fuck. In his determination to do his job he had neglected his own family. He was a cop. Amy was a nurse. Both were in short supply. Hell, he hadn't called because he knew there wouldn't be time, probably couldn't have gotten a hold of her anyways…

But Ian. Ian was probably still at daycare. Shit. Alone and abandoned during a time when even the adults didn't have a clue what the fuck was going on…What do you tell a little kid? A man's first duty was to his wife and kids….to be there, to protect them. Hell, he had spent the last four months teaching the Kid—

"_I was at Sisters of Mercy, Mr. Lawless," his partner said sadly. "I was practically raised in a Convent. The only men in my life were the ones who hurt me."_

_He slammed his fist into the doorframe, the Kid jumping back in skittish silence. "Godammnit, Kid! Those motherfuckers who hurt you were never men! What they did to you wasn't about sex, it was about power. And anyone, anyone who picks on someone weaker just to feel like a man—!" Those shaking shoulders gripped tightly in his palms, doe's eyes wet with the shock of tears. "Call me antiquated, but the very definition of a man is a protector. So I don't care what the fuck they did to you. What they did to you changes _nothing_ about you—doesn't make you any less of a man. Because you took an oath to serve and protect. And _that_ makes you a man, Kid. It makes you a thousand times more a man than those bastards ever were."_

Wearily he looked out the inch thick, bullet proof glass. Away in the distance, a bright light burned on Gotham's horizon, cut by the shadows of rising skyscrapers. Smoke and ash rose in the air, hazy with wavering shafts of light and billowing clouds of dust. His family was out there somewhere in Gotham, beyond his reach, beyond his help, beyond his protection.

Amy was safe. He prayed Ian was safe. Beyond that, Detective couldn't bring himself to hope.

* * *

**01:35 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"You okay?" Chavez asked, one hand light on her arm. Amy Lawless pulled away, shrinking further into the locker room. "I'm fine."

There was concern in his dark eyes. "You sure?"

Amy Lawless faced him stonily. "_Yes_, Mark," he touched her arm again, looking hesitantly into her eyes. "You seem upset."

"Upset?" she shouted. "_Upset?_ The largest recorded terrorist attack in history just happened eleven hours ago Mark! I just watched fifty-three people-kids! die out there on the floor! My husband's a cop, my three year old son is stuck in fucking daycare and it's one AM! Of course I'm upset—!"

The surgeon looked discomfited, but concern and sincerity were written in his gentle gaze. "Do you need to talk about it?"

Amy gave a black and bitter laugh. "Not with you," she tried to step around him. His hand grabbed her wrist, holding her back.

"Ames—" His free hand reached for her dark hair. She turned her face away, blue eyes burning with anger. Cold fury ate through her, adrenaline pumping once again. She was pissed at Mark for touching her…even more at herself for having ever invited it. _Damn it, chick, you promised Jimmy this was over!_

"Don't call me that," she hissed. "Ever again." It was Aaron's name for her…had been Aaron's name for her—

Chavez' grip on her wrist slackened. "Look, we need to talk—

"No," the RN said forcefully. "I wrote you a note, Mark. Everything I have or _will ever have_ to say to you was in that note. _It's. Over_."

Damn it. She was so weak, so alone, just needed a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to hold her. She had never asked to be independent, never asked to be brave…

"I just want to know you're okay," Mark said kindly, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened. Shook. Then sobbed, wiping tears from her streaming, aching eyes. Slowly, gently, he pulled her close, one arm around her waist, the other pressing her closer, closer over the steady beating of his heart—

Heartbeats. The RN grabbed fistfuls of his bloodstained scrubs, a tiny, screaming moan falling from her lips.

"It's alright, Ames. It's okay…" It was so comforting…but wrong. It had always been wrong. It should be Aaron, it should have always been her husband holding her—

Chavez rocked her slowly back and forth. She opened her eyes, looking at her reflection in misery and disgust. She had promised herself, promised Jimmy that this wouldn't happen again. That it was over. She told herself was just her damn emotions, this damn stress, this damn pregnancy…But it had been her damn emotions and Mark's damn concern that had gotten her in this mess in the first place.

_God, Aaron. Where are you?_

* * *

**01:34 EST**

**Gotham City Airport Terminal 13B**

Gotham's skyline rose in the distance, blurred with smog…and dust. Smoke still rose eerily behind a backdrop of jagged skyscrapers, the blinding emergency lights casting an eerie glow over the horizon, like a dark and deadly dawn.

Officer Crispus Allen stood waiting for his luggage, feet planted parallel to the enormous, floor to ceiling windows that usually offered tourists a tantalizing view of the sleepless city. He felt a crack in his trembling left palm.

He didn't need to look to know the bridge of his mirrored sunglasses had snapped in two. He let the twin pieces fall, not hearing them tinker over the marble floor. He couldn't. There was a much louder, more urgent cry going up over Gotham in billowing clouds of ash and debris.

A city never sleeps. But it sure as hell could scream.

* * *

**1:45 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Gordon hung up the phone, laying it down on his leg with a shaky hand. His family was safe…But not his city. He cast a begrudging look at his watch: he had been awake for more than twenty hours.

Anna Ramirez was still weeping. She shouldn't be here. She should be home. Home with her three small children and dying mother…

But there was no one else. None left to take her place. Jim Gordon felt a stab of pity run through his already breaking heart. He understood her pain. What he wouldn't give to be home right now, holding Jimmy and BB and Barbara…

He squeezed her shoulder gently, hoping she would understand. But her sobbing only grew worse.

Fully a third of Gotham's public service workers were now missing, injured, or dead. The National Guard had arrived…but they would need help, liaisons, inside information…and Jim Gordon knew this city, knew it better than anyone…except perhaps The Batman.

Whoever, and wherever he was. This was Gotham's darkest hour…she needed her heroes. All of them.

Even her Dark Knight.

* * *

**01:48 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

_Fool. You blinded, arrogant Fool. To think one man could make a difference—!_

But one man had made a difference—and how great, and terrible. Bruce raised his tear stained eyes, blinking owlishly in the blinding lights, his hollow-eyed reflection doing the same. Ozymandias. _Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!_

Yet even that King's realm had come to an end.

With an inhuman cry he stood, punching a fist through the plate glass window, crystal shards exploding in a fiery crash of scintillating blue and red, a dark curtain torn, fallen, rent. Heads turned, eyes stared. Chest heaving, fist bleeding, Bruce Wayne collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping in both pain and rage.

He would be—could be—two men no longer.

* * *

**01:48 EST**

**Gotham City Airport**

Fuck it. Fuck all of it. He wasn't standing to wait for a taxi any longer. The whole city was practically on lock down.

There. A Chevy Impala, the middle-aged driver just climbing in—

"GCPD!" Crispus Allen jogged over, flashing his badge. "I'm sorry ma'am. But I'm gonna need your vehicle."

* * *

**01:50 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Coffee?" Milton asked, seeing the Boss rise.

Gordon nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Thank fucking God this place keeps us well stocked," the officer mumbled, pulling the tab as the steaming liquid filled a styrofoam cup. "You too, Lawless?"

"Hell yeah," the Detective grunted, still keeping watch over the door. Every person entering would receive the same treatment as Anna.

"How'd you like it?"

"Intravenously," Lawless growled.

Jim grimaced humorlessly. It seemed like an age since this morning's conversations…had it only been less than twenty four hours? "What's our status?"

"Face down. With our pants around our ankles. But it's a start. We've got Red Cross tracking down people who took refuge in the subways before the Legacy went down. That's the chief concern…collapse, or, or running out of oxygen—" Milton looked quickly back to the monitors, trying to conceal his grief. The memory of station 213 wasn't yet hours old.

"Tracking? How?" Lawless asked sharply.

"Shit," the techie stated. "I fucking forgot. We've got this electromagnetic field detector-finds heart beats-and from guess who? Bruce fucking_ Wayne._ WE donated an Ops Center as well, it's down in the plaza—"

There was an awkward, pregnant pause in which all three waited for a woman's voice to interrupt with a low whistle and _Freakin' A_.

None expected to hear that voice again.

* * *

**01:59 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

_The nightmares the hands the groping painpainsearing painfrightgetoffgetoffpleasegetoffmeGodpleasecan't breathecan't breathe—!_

This wasn't the first time he had lain alone, trapped in the dark, God knows what sort of horrors lurking in the blackness-_ coming closer and closer—!_

But that faint, gentle pulse still beat in that smooth hand, every stroke an aching sob.

"_Wake up,"_ tears bathed the limp palm cradled desperately in his."_Please wake up—!"_

Prayers. Pleadings. Tears. No response. Gwen Paltron would remain unconscious for another twelve unending hours.

* * *

**02:01 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Milton cleared his throat in the heavy silence, and began anew. "Bradley's working on getting that set up-something about…quadrangulating?…I'm just waiting on his signal."

* * *

**02:10 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

**The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza**

"Renee, you in position?" Officer Eugene Bradley's familiar voice interrupted her nervous perusal of the rooftop below. Renee Montoya was now one hundred and twenty storeys above ground, staring out a GCPD helicopter from the passengers seat to the roof below. "Just about. Now can you tell me what the fuck is going on?"

_What was going on? No answers only questions there was no reason no meaning no purpose only chaos and mayhem and hell ground littered debris scattered buildings leaning garages collapsing children dead subway suffocating—_

Red and blue lights flashed epileptic nightmares across every reflective window, the blinding glare of a hundred search lights like the heat of a nuclear blast. Viewed from above, it was more desolate, more hopeless, more horrifying than any artist's rendition of the mouth of Hell the Latina had ever seen.

A picture said a thousand words. Reality simply screamed them.

Static came over the radio, jarring her from her despairing thoughts.

"Alright then. Your mission is to anchor that fucker to the Southeast corner, and connect it to the power grid. All these buildings got backup generators—even if the juice is off, they're still running hot. You need to set her up, confirm the power, and then get the hell back aboard that chopper!"

Beside her, the pilot was wrestling with the controls. "Not gonna lie to you. It's pretty fucking windy up here…" Again the roof was lost beneath them, soot and spray splashing the bottom of the chopper. "Let's try it again, this time from the North—"

The chopper spun, buffeted up and down, the stadium lights glaring again like a sinister, sickly sun. Renee squinted against their brightness, coughing on dust.

"How's it coming?" Bradley's mechanized voice came again through the headset.

"It's too fucking windy up here!" Renee shouted. "We're coming back around and trying a different approach angle—"

The chopper dipped steeply, both occupants swearing loudly. This time the blades nearly clipped the roof of a neighboring building.

"You good?" Bradley's voice came again, more urgent. Hers was the last antenna. They had to get this thing up and running-

"Negative!" She shouted back. "It's too fucking windy! Pilot says there's no way we can land!"

* * *

**02:03 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

**The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza**

"What the Hell do we do now?" Renee's shouting voice was muffled by the dull whirring of the chopper's blades.

Damn. Some people just had no imagination. Hell, Paltron would've been halfway across the roof right now. Bradley let out a loud, long sigh over the staticky radio.

"You jump."

* * *

**02:04 EST**

**Above Gotham City**

**The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza**

"I _WHAT?!"_

"Jump," Eugene Bradley repeated. "Pilot's gonnna sweep to your side of the chopper, you jump out, and land-don't forget to tuck and roll."

The Latina sucked in her breath. "You've got to be shitting me."

Dry, humorless chuckles came through her headset and she flushed. "You've only got a landing pad of sixteen hundred square feet up there—so don't miss, okay?"

Renee rolled her bloodshot eyes, staring at the gravelly surface below. She shivered. It was only about fifteen feet to fall…give or take a hundred and twenty stories or so. It was also fucking cold. The outside temperature might have still been in the sixties, but the wind whipped wickedly around them, battering the aircraft in a lilting dance over the roof.

_Hijo de puta._ Give her gun shots give her bomb threats put her in direct line of fire…just don't ask her to jump out of a moving aircraft. Renee Montoya shut her eyes tight, flickering lights creating scarring red bursts in her retinas. Her heart pumped loudly in her ears, the blades whirred dangerously overhead-

_Station 213. Twenty-one dead. Lights blinking beeping hearts slowing, stopping—_

A whispered prayer, a short scream, a loud _UMPH!_

_Dios Mio_, Renee Montoya lay flat on her back, gasping for air. The blow had knocked the wind out of her.

Swirling dust rising in suffocating rings, sweeping off the roof, blinking, blackness…fading lights. She brushed the whipping hair out of her eyes, wiping away wind-swept tears, rolling to her knees and standing shakily."I'm here!"

* * *

**02:10 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

Red Cross had taken over the Cardia, sweeping along the subway routes starting from the epicenter of the plaza itself._ Over twenty-four hundred people had been found, many suffering only from minor injuries and dehydration_, Rebecca James announced, her low voice for once unheeded.

This audience had more pressing matters to attend.

"Of course you're familiar with triangulating—it takes three points to form a continuous geometric shape. Using two fixed points, you can locate a third by pinpointing the intersection of two straight lines tangent to these points. Even before the Crusades triangulation was being used for surveying land, massive construction projects…even warfare tactics-what weights to use on a trebuchets, what type of bow to fire into enemy ranks," Lucius Fox explained patiently to the small gathering of City Police. "What we're doing here is one step further: we've added a fourth point."

"Above." Bradley nodded. "You've taken it from 2D to 3D."

"Precisely," Fox agreed. "A triangle is a planar shape, plotting X and Y. We've extended the range to a Z scale as well-essentially forming a solid. Given the concentration of signals in such a small area, a three dimensional map will better enable us to locate exact positioning." And image the ruins. They would see the literal X-rays of Gotham City Plaza, beams, joists, buried automobiles, smoldering pockets of fire and ash…and survivors.

That much Bradley understood. What he didn't understand were the signals. _Signals from what?_

"Done!" Montoya's tinny voice sounded through Bradley's headset.

"We're up and running," he relayed to the elderly gentleman. "You good?"

"Let us hope," was his reply as his dark, weathered fingers slowly typed the password:

_LUCIUS FOX__

Officer Eugene Bradley leaned forward, curious and expectant as a strange, throbbing hum began growing from inside the machine. For fully a minute, nothing happened. Then—

"_Shit!"_

Spectral, eerie white shadows began their flickering dance across the screens.

* * *

**02:20 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"We are up and running!" Bradley's voice came through the headset. "Man, if you could see this shit!"

"What've you got?" Milton asked.

"Fucking _sonar._ Or something like that. They're being all shitty and secretive—whatever the hell this shit is, it's pretty confidential stuff. I'm talking Black Ops/first amendment rights violations here. I think they're hacking the speakers from cell phones and ipods—we've got visuals of parts of the understructure—you wouldn't believe it!"

Speakers from cell phones and ipods? Believable. The FBI had that power. Foreign governments could intercept those signals and use then as a listening device in their own countries—a well broadcasted fact to diplomats and visiting politicians. But sonar? Now that was old school…

But old school or not, that sort of power belonging to a private company was fucking illegal as Hell. Wayne Enterprises was probably breaking confidentiality contracts with the federal government. Violating constitutional rights—perhaps even UN policy. The Officer felt a twinge of begrudging respect for Wayne. As worthless as the playboy might be…the son of a bitch had _balls_.

Milton raised his eyes. Lawless and the Commissioner were looking at him expectantly. "What do they have?"

Milton turned the comm. off. "Imaging. But the military ain't gonna like it."

* * *

**02:57 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Crispus Allen barked. "I'm a city cop!" He waved his badge in the Uniform's face, spit flying from his mouth. "This is all the fucking ID you need!"

"I'm sorry sir, but—"

"Fuck you. Fuck all of this!" he shouted, slamming the door to the Impala. No vehicular traffic. They were trying to get construction equipment to the plaza, closing off all the roads…only ambulances and National Guard vehicles would pass the checkpoints.

It was three AM. And it was a good five miles to GCPD headquarters.

_Hang in there, Renee. Hang in there, everyone. I'm coming…_he'd just flown eight hundred miles from Metropolis to get to Gotham. He would walk the rest._ It just might take me awhile._

* * *

**03:37 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room**

Detective Aaron Lawless narrowed his eyes. Commissioner Jim Gordon stood, musing silently, head dropped back against the wall. Anna Ramirez still stared blankly at her hands. Fred Milton sat, tight lipped, glancing nervously between them. "It's a go."

It's a go. Just like that. Tapping the cell phones of civilians. Lawless hated knowing it was within the power of his government, a rape of privacy, overstepping their bounds…and now that same power in a private corporation?

But surely this was a desperate time. Thirty-five thousand missing, dead or injured. The largest terrorist attack on US soil. Surely even the Romans appointed emergency, executive powers in times of war and extremity?

_…Yeah, and anyone who'd watched Star Wars could tell you the outcome of that._

But this wasn't war. It was lives. Hundreds perhaps thousands of lives hung in the balance. Oxygen. Dehydration. Raging fires. Survivors of the Legacy had little time. Desperate times called for desperate measures, for acts of faith, gut instinct…the Detective would never know how closely his reasoning resembled that of another man, a District Attorney, barely a year ago. Knowing this, knowing the truth…perhaps he would have thought otherwise.

Jim Gordon remained motionless, stricken, the same thoughts plaguing his mind, weighing his soul. The Batman's words, dusty and long since forgotten swam tauntingly to the surface: _Dent? Can he be trusted?_

_TerrorfailureagonyJimmyBarbaraBB! No, no, please, please me instead, punish me instead!_

A deep, growling voice jarred him from his thoughts. "You have to ask yourself, Jim, do the ends justify the means."

Commissioner James Gordon opened his eyes, and the burning hazel eyes of Detective Aaron Lawless were mere inches from his own.

Thirty-five thousand people. Real, tangible people. People with mothers. Fathers. Children. People like Barbara, like Jimmy, like BB…people like Paltron.

_"Get your head out of your ass, Gordon! Someday you're going to wake up and realize the world isn't divided into black and white and good people and criminals…you'll come to a place where there is no right decision no one right answer and you're going to have to choose! You'll have to choose what's important to you! When the people you love are being hurt and it's in your power to save them—"_

Ramirez. Milton. Lawless. Barbara. The kids. Batman. Gotham. They looked to him. Looked to him to make things right…

_"You'll save them. You'll see. And you'll do anything, fucking _anything_ to save them…even if it costs you everything."  
_  
Can the ends ever justify the means. Thirteen goddamned years. Jim Gordon had asked himself that question many, many times. Yet even now, even looking into the face of the man he believed the Batman, the right answer still eluded him.

….perhaps Paltron had been right. Perhaps there wasn't one.

* * *

**03:40 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Chapel**

Moaning. Weeping. The cedar pews were littered with the injured and dying, ghostlike shadows eating across the empty stone floor, staining it a deep and deadly crimson as searchlights beamed eerily through the stained glass…

The place reeked of death.

Jesus trod slowly down the aisle to the confessional, the weight of every screaming curse, sobbing breath, whispered prayer resting both heavy and hellish on his heart. Every withered, skeletal hand, every demons claw, leering mouth, every cold marble statue of saint and angel screamed his guilt: Behold the man! The cathedral stretched on. Sweat falling thick and fast. Rows upon rows of strange, greyish shapes, coated in plaster like living statues more horrible, more accusatory than the sculpted reliefs….. Panting in pain. Gasping for air. Black-clad sisters moved like liquid shadows through the dark, removing glass, offering water…covering the dead.

A flitting shadow. Jesus turned as a dark figure fell before the floor-length windows, black against blinding white, hand raised he covered his eyes, squinting into the glare-

A wailing nun clutched a dead baby, empty eyes open in its drooping head.

He shuddered, pierced to the heart, the dead eyes holding him in place.

Time stopped. Sweat poured. The leader of the Latin Kings didn't see when three more Sisters came and comforted their comrade, didn't see Teresa Margaret gently take the infant, kiss its head or close the eyes, didn't see the small, wretched bundle placed so reverently, so lovingly, so tenderly among countless others…

Numbed. Heartsick. Guerrero knew nothing but that he stood in the iridescent specter of the Slaughter of Innocents, the tears of the stricken, emaciated glass figures mixing with his own.

* * *

**03:41 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room**

Eerie, white specters danced across the screens as hundreds of superimposed red dots began to blink as one. Every dot a human heart. Every blink another pulse. Every second of silence a second wasted-

_"….you'll come to a place where there is no _right_ decision no one _right_ answer and you're going to have to choose! You'll have to choose what's important to you!"_

Intangible, unalienable rights…or real, living human beings. There was no moral struggle for Officer Fred Milton. He was here to serve and protect the citizens of Gotham…and you'd have to be pretty fucking stupid not to realize that what you were supposed to serve and protect was _lives_. Human lives. _Come on, Jim. Use the fucker._

Detective Anna Ramirez raised her bloodshot eyes, the guilt of every death raw in her aching heart. For the first time since that morning she could imagine salvation: every light on that board a hope of redemption, to prove herself, to wash her guilt: _Nunca mas, nunca mas. Never again._

Aaron Lawless looked stonily on the myriads of heart beats, the fleeting, ghostlike fingers threading through the blackness of the monitors. A friend and a son lay in that wreckage. He would use it. Use it and dare any man, any _parent_ to judge him-

_Barbara's terrible screaming, vomiting choking pleading dragging to the edge, the horror of Gotham stretching for miles and miles around, sirens blazing to the ferries, eerie, skeletonal ruins in the darkness, Dent's body lying tiny and broken on the gravel below…eyes for none of this, knees giving out, screams fading heart stopping: Jimmy! Alive! His child his son was alive—!_

Dent's death. The Joker's chaos. The Batman's disappearance…it was worth it. Knowing his family was safe, Barbara sleeping on the couch, BB and Jimmy safe in her arms…he would do anything to protect them. Give anything to keep them safe, to hold them again-

Jim Gordon raised his eyes, the burden of every grieving family falling heavily upon him. The parents of thousands of Gotham's children were no different, would give anything for even the smallest ray of hope…who was _he _to deny them?

"We have the power to save lives," the Commissioner finally whispered. "…. It would be a waste not to use it."

A slow, silent sigh shuddered through the Tracking Room.

Milton nodded.

Ramirez wiped her eyes.

Lawless remained impassive, tightening a hand on the Commissioner's shoulder. "You're doing the right thing."

The right thing. A woman murdering four men to save a young child. A District Attorney wreaking his own vengeance for his dead fiancé. An allegiance with a costumed vigilante…a year long lie, a false and empty peace…._where would it end?_

"Am I," Jim Gordon whispered. The words felt empty and hollow. So did he.

Lawless bit his lips, eyes drawn from his friend's face to the yawning window panes behind, stained with grey swirls of ash and dust. The ruins of the Wayne Legacy Foundation still belched smoke and brilliant, white light from three miles away. Jutting skyscrapers rose like broken, blackened teeth from this bleeding, insatiable maw.

Commissioner James Gordon stared blankly ahead. Right. Wrong. Good. Evil. What was the difference between them? Had it been ignorance or self-righteousness that had blinded him…or had he traveled so far down this path he could no longer see it's beginning? Bitter as bile, consuming as cancer, this uncertainty crept through his heart and the screaming city like a dark and deadly dawn.

* * *

**03:45 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Convent**

Even the sturdy oaken walls of the confessional could not drown his guilt. Outside this small sanctuary, the wails and shrieks of the wounded and dying could still be heard. And for every death, every injury, he was _el culpable._ The Guilty One.

A simple, twisted crucifix was fixed on the opposite panel, the painted eyes of its pathetic, emaciated figure staring knowingly into his.

Enough, Guerrero cried, enough—!

A rustling in the adjacent cell. The Priest was here. For a long, heavy moment, they sat in silence, then a smooth and sinister voice dripped through the screen: "Well, my son?"

Jesus shuddered. "F-forgive me, Father, for I have… sinned."

That silky voice rang again. "How long has it been since your last confession?"

"One week."

"Go on."

"I have done…terrible thing," Jesus could not longer feel, his mind retreating into a numbed haze of exhaustion and guilt. His lips moved soundlessly, eyes blank and unblinking, hypnotized by the icon before him. "I do not think that God can forgive me."

"Do not be so quick to underestimate his compassion. He is your Father. And did not the prodigal son disrespect his father, treat with contempt, squander his inheritance on harlotry and drunkenness? And yet when returned in humility, did this man he had so hated not embrace him warmly and weep over him?" that voice was now warm, soothing, speaking of solace and comfort, assuaging fear and withholding judgment…

It inspired confidence. Trust. That voice could never do, never be wrong—

"Yes…"

"Do not falter on the road to forgiveness. Your own Father waits eagerly for your return, waiting to embrace you again," smooth as oil, shrouded in silk, sweet scented poison. "Remember, the Shepard rejoices less over the ninety-nine than the finding of one he had lost…So tell me, my son. _What is this thing you have done?"_

And slowly, slowly, that dark deed began to spill from his lips and soak through that screen, black and bilious, bitter as blood.

* * *

**03:48 EST  
FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel**

_GCPD: Red Cross One, Red Cross One, this is GCPD-_

_GCEMS: Red Cross One. Over._

_GCPD: Request assistance on Dent and Seventeenth, north end of block, I repeat, request assistance on Dent and Seventeenth, north end of block. We have an indicated fifty survivors taking refuge in portable toileting facilities, over._

_GCEMS: GCPD, sending teams to Dent and Seventeenth. Repeat: Sending teams to Dent and Seventeenth._

* * *

**04:01 EST  
Intersection 17th Street and Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

"I'm stuck I can't breathe-I-I-I can't breathe—!"

Panic. Sobs. _"Hang on Sara, Baby, listen to me, it's going to be okay—!"_

At 14:01, August 19th, precisely one hundred bright blue portable toilets had lined the sidewalk of the Stop the Violence parade, their fumes noisome in the hot summer air. Fifty-four had been occupied. All had been swept aside, knocked over, and buried in the deluge of debris and dust, trapping their occupants—and a small, noxious atmosphere of air—inside.

Twelve hours. Oxygen long since turned to carbon dioxide. Voice lower. Quieter. Panic now. Light-headed stuck in the porta-potty dying in the porta-potty that was funny!

_Itwasfunnywasn'tititwasn'tfunnylaughingcryingsobbi ngsuffocating—_

Heavy tramping. Shouts. Sirens. Sixteen year old Sara McCloud kicked desperately against the hard plastic, screaming for help. "Over here! Over here! Help me please—!"

_"Sara? Baby, is someone there?"_

Hurried footsteps. "Hello?"

Urine. Feces. Methane. Her mother's voice forgotten."Help me! I'm, I'm stuck help _ohpleasegodhelpmehelpme—!"_

"Stay down, honey! Cover your head!" The fireman swung the butt of an axe into the blue plastic, brittle shards spinning across the colorless wreckage. Crack. Crack. Crunch. He kicked through the hole, widening it, the girl's scrabbling fingers breaking under the force of the blows—

"Stay back, honey, just stay back!"

_"Helpohgodpleasehelpgodplease—!"_

_"Sara, SARA!"  
_  
Another blow. More snapping bones. The hole broke through. The phone fell. The gagging, god-awful smell rose. He vomited, reaching a hand into that terrible hole and hauled the sobbing girl up by her ruined hands, as wet and wretched as a squalling newborn. He clutched her small frame to his chest, her lanky legs flopping pathetically as he staggered through the wreckage to the waiting ambulances. "I need help! Somebody help her!" It was terribly familiar…the little girl's blackened flesh, shallow breath _I don't know what to do please help her just help her she's going into shock, AED!_

A paramedic rushed towards him. "Bring her here!" Stretcher. Oxygen. Four thick, black straps. The sobbing teenager wiped sewage from her contorted face, moaning wordlessly. "She'll be fine," EMS worker Jennifer Hanson assured the hovering FD. "You did your job. Let me do mine."

That slimy hand still clasped in his. "What's your name, honey?" Fireman Elliot Goldfinger asked.

"S-s-sara!"

"You'll be okay, Sara," he whispered, giving that tiny, shit-slimed hand one last squeeze. "It's all gonna be okay."

* * *

**04:02 EST  
Eagle Harvest Estates**

Sara. Sara! The phone was dead the phone her daughter had died!

"SARA! OH GOD, SARA!" Cindy McCloud was sobbing, retching, screaming, fingers ripped clothes tore hair hyperventilating choking puking keening. The forty-two year old Renaissance Art Professor collapsed to the floor as her husband fell slowly down the doorframe, head bowed in an age-long silence.

No false hope nor embrace. No meaningless words of comfort. No lies. No promises. Sara. Dead. Their only child, gone. There was nothing left to say.

* * *

**04:03 EST  
Intersection 17th Street and Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

The door shuts. Lights whir. The ambulance becomes a blurred and screaming siren amongst thousands. Smoke rises. Concrete crumbles. Darkness. Dust.

Twelve hours of hell. Fifty-seven body bags. Charred limbs, smearing, blackened flesh, rotting bone. Elliot Goldfinger blinked. The ambulance was gone. But not his courage. This might be hell. Might be chaos. There might be no God, no reason, no answers…

But he had hope. He had closure.

…Her name was Sara.

* * *

**04:15 EST  
The Fountainhead**

Darkness. Bone-chilling cold. Freezing spray. Lung searing ash. One hundred and twenty storeys above the ground, the roof of the Fountainhead was a terrible place to be.

"Come on, just break you motherfucker!" Renee Montoya shouted again, throwing her weight against the emergency doors. No use. They were locked tight.

Her partner could have easily handled this, snapping the steel like matches…but Crispus was in Metropolis. His father's heart surgery. She would have to weather this one on her own. "Piece of shit!" One last, fierce kick. She fell down, arms crossed in frustration, back against the unyielding steel. It was fucking cold up here. No water, no rest. The Latina had been on the roof of the Fountainhead for nearly two hours. The chopper had long since vanished into the bright, blinding haze, and had never returned.

"Survivors found on Dent and Seventeenth…" Milton and Bradley were chattering away on the radio-EMS. GCPD. The fucking national guard. All the channels were occupied. Saving lives. She sighed in frustration, miserable in the cold and wet, choking on soot, feeling helpless and worthless. GCPD needed her. Gotham needed her….and here she was doing fucking nothing. Beside her, the antennae box quadrangulating the depth of GPS position of cell phone signals to one one-thousandth of a meter continued to receive.

Lives were being saved. _Lo importante_. Her own peronsal comfort could wait.

* * *

**04:20 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"What do we have, Fox?" Bruce asked anxiously, leaning into the screens.

"It's not working as well as I would have hoped," Lucius replied quietly, face drawn and fallen."We're registering empty space. Especially at the epicenter."

"Dust. Corroding the batteries," Bruce grunted.

Lucius nodded, taking a grateful sip of coffee. "That's a possibility, Mr. Wayne."

"More like muffling the speakers," Bradley offered. "You've got plenty of equipment down there…if I'm right. You're just not registering a signal because no sound vibrations are penetrating that far. People would have been at street level. They're buried deep."

Wayne and Fox both shot him a furtive, sidelong glance.

"Come on, cell phones! They'd be buried deep! And it's the only thing it could be, really," he stated unabashedly.

Wayne shot Fox a questioning stare. The CEO nodded slowly.

"What are you suggesting?" the playboy asked.

"Simple," Officer Eugene Bradley shrugged. "Make some noise."

* * *

**04:21 EST  
Thomas J. Wayne Boulevard**

"Methodist, this is Trauma One!" Jennifer Hanson shouted into the comm. "We've got a female patient, age sixteen, presenting severe dehydration, shock, and CO2 toxicity! We're three minutes out!"

"Trauma One, we copy. Respiratory therapy will be standing by."

Jen dropped the phone back in its cradle, grabbing Sara's shoulders again, forcing the oxygen mask back over her gasping face. "Deep, slow breaths, honey! _Take deep slow breaths!"_

* * *

**4:22 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"Make some noise."

"How?" Wayne asked suspiciously.

"Ringtones. Get people to call. It'll activate the speakers—if that's what we're using."

No. But close. The High Frequency Pulse Emitter had been installed with the aid of the US Military. Wayne Enterprises had developed the technology and sold it on a contract basis. Bruce had proposed it as an extra measure of homeland security, anti-terrorism…

…or search and rescue.

But the experimental technology wasn't even two years old. The newest iphones, Nokias, Blackberries and Razors all contained the chip…but not everyone in Gotham could afford cutting edge technology. Damned if Bradley wasn't right-teens, young adults, children—teachers with their meager salaries—would be among the last to buy new phones…first to receive parent's hand-me-down's…

"But would it work," Fox mused aloud.

"It should." Bruce nodded. "It should." Smaller in amplitude, weaker in resonance, the sound waves in the human hearing range could be detected faintly by the EMF receivers…if activated.

"Announce it on the news," Bradley continued. It made sense: have loved ones calling the phones of the dead. Rational. Perhaps cruel. But the vibrations produced would map the plaza….lives could be saved…

The elderly gentleman ran a hand through his grizzled hair, looking suddenly hesitant.

But therein lies the rub, Bradley observed humorlessly. They needed more imaging. But to get it…they must chance exposure. And exposure could mean confiscation. Perhaps imprisonment.

Either way, the technology would be doing no one any good. Under a million tons of steel, glass, concrete and asbestos, victims of the Legacy were running out of air…

…and time.

* * *

**04:30 EST  
Arkham Asylum  
Patient Care Ward**

Come out, come out wherever you are! This was better than breaking out. Better than simply blowing something up, taking Harvey and his bunny hostage…Hell, he had even forgotten to be pissed at that stupid Spic…

No-oh, no. He hadn't forgotten. Merely _postponed._

But for now, he was pre-occupied with something else: something better. This was one show even the Batman would never miss. The Big Bad Bat would be back now. No more pouting and refusing to play-

That red-headed bitch, still spewing pointless facts like a stuck record: twenty-four hundred saved in subways…patients being sent for treatment at Arkham, Sisters of Mercy, United Methodist…Firefighters find survivors along Dent and Seventeenth—

He changed the channel: CNN. _National terrorist threat level raised to red…all flights grounded, no one has yet claimed responsibility for the attacks…_

Blahblahblah. Bo-riiing. The Joker yawned lazily, flipping back to Channel 18. He still didn't know whether to be impressed or insulted that they had ruined his show. It had been his big day…but with a routine this good, he really couldn't resent them… But he could…take down some, uh, pointers.

_C'mon. Tell us what we wanna know. Who did it, hmmm? Who did it-tuh?_

_…And why?_

* * *

**04:35 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

There was silence on the Comm. Silence in the room. No one moved.

"You want us to what?" Milton asked in disbelief.

"Go public." Bruce Wayne's tired tones rang. "We've located nearly two thousand people. Fox and Eugene are convinced there's more."

Gordon clenched his eyes tightly, the haunting image of the Legacy's empty scar shining bright over the horizon still imprinted on his retinas. He blinked. Gotham needed him now. Needed him as she had needed the Batman a year ago,,. Like that boy had needed Paltron—

_Hopelessness now. No where else to turn. Their last, their greatest defender…was worse than dead. He was ruined, true face showing at last. "The Joker won. Harvey's prosecution, everything he fought for, undone. Every chance you gave u sfor fixing this city dies with his reputation. We bet it all on him. The Joker took the best of us and tore him down. The people will lose hope—"_

_"No. They won't. They must never know what he did… I can do those things because I am not a hero. Not like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be. I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be. Call it in."_

_And he did. With trembling fingers, with choking respect, he did. Called it in. Lied. Because sometimes the truth isn't good enough. Sometimes people deserve more, sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded…_

_He had seen it before. Taking the fall, shouldering the blame. Surillo banging the gavel, the jury reading their verdict, the charges announced, and one by one she was declared guilty, her sentence read-_

_Yet she had eyes only for him. Cold, compassionless steely eyes. The eyes of a killer, a molester…a queen. No tears falling, chin held high. Not broken. Not remorseful. Triumphant.  
_  
…But innocent. _Christ, Paltron,_ he had whispered, _wouldn't it have been easier just to tell us?_

Thirteen goddamned years. He finally understood…and the realization tasted bitter in his mouth. This is what it felt like to dread, to know you would be misunderstood, misinterpreted, misjudged. To lose everything…

Yet to do it anyways: A Killer Angel…

…A Dark Knight.

And that's when he felt it. That ominous, inescapable weight. In his heart, Commissioner James Gordon knew the Batman had already taken the fall once. Took Dent's sins upon himself. Exiled. Banished. Became the Villain, just like Paltron…and he could no longer be the Hero.

"The military might order us to shut it down," Fox cautioned over the comm set. "We'll do what we can until then."

Lawless nodded. "How far out are they?"

Milton was charting National Guard's progress over the radio. "They're fucking everywhere. They've got roadways blocked, they've taken over the airport—"

"I'll get the information to the press," Wayne's voice came. "James. Channel 18. Everyone in Gotham's watching."

"After that…it'll only be a matter of time until someone upstairs puts two and two together," Bradley said quickly. "Get going Wayne."

"We'll need to buy more time," Lawless growled slowly, hazel eyes boring knowingly into his own. "The second Wayne goes on air they'll start working on finding us…and shutting us down."

Buy time…like hope. It was a precious commodity. Worth any cost—however horrible.

Gordon felt his pulse surging. Time. Time. Time…

It was now or never. Gotham needed a Hero…

…and this time, the Batman was looking to him.

"No." The whispered, shaking voice of Commissioner James Gordon was barely audible. The room plunged into silence, all eyes—and ears—attentive, desperate for an answer, reassurance, for hope. He had none.

"As of this moment, Wayne Enterprises is acting on behalf of and with the authority of the Gotham City Police Department-a federally recognized branch of the United States Police Force. As such, we are an independent, autonomous law enforcement authority outside of the US military…This occurred within the limits of Gotham City. Until convincing evidence is provided to the contrary, this falls under our jurisdiction. I am Police Commissioner-and until a successor takes the oath of mayor or governor—or they are found, I am temporarily charged with their duties. Protocol dictates that until I am removed due to death, illness, perceived mental or emotional incompetence, or relieved of said duties by a federal emergency response team or elected official…this event—and it's contingencies—falls under the jurisdiction of the GCPD…_and it's commander's discretion."  
_  
To serve and protect.

Milton looked away. Anna Ramirez' lips opened, another burning tear sliding smoothly down her cheek.

Lawless remained silent, head bowed.

Swallowing, he began again, quavering voice barely above a whisper. "You don't turn this off until you receive direct orders from me…or a suitable and authenticated replacement."

Silence.

Milton nodded. Anna bowed her head. Lawless' bloodshot hazel eyes closed tightly.

Gordon waited long for them to open.

* * *

**04:36 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

Officer Eugene Bradley glanced to the technician next to him. "You understand what he's saying?"

Fox nodded. Bruce's sacrifice. "I believe I do."

* * *

**04:40 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room**

"Do not shut down—lock yourselves in if you have to. They'll come to the Tracking Room, first, obviously—but someone's bound to notice those power cables," Milton's voice droned in the background.

"For this to work they'll need written confirmation of consignment," Lawless said lowly, finally breaking his strange silence. He laid a firm hand on the Commissioner's arm."I'll take care of it."

_You're doing the right thing, Jim._

No more doubt. The Commissioner attempted a grimacing smile, nodding his head in silent thanks. For twenty years he had sacrificed his time for Gotham…he only hoped to buy her more.

…But unbeknownst to him, the Batman was already doing just that.

* * *

**04:42 EST  
Gotham City Plaza**

Running running lungs aching glass dust blinding lights-

"_James!_" Bruce shouted. _"Rebecca James!"_

There. That familiar bright mane of curls appeared, the only color in this hell of grey, powdery dust. She looked disoriented, exhausted, spent…but goddamned determined. "Wayne?" She stood quickly, one hand on his right arm. "What are you doing here?"

The footsore billionaire leaned over, panting, hands on his knees. The distance had been no strain…but the dust was fucking murder. And Armani loafers, he decided, looking down at the shredded shoes, were never meant to be worn in a combat zone. An inch long, jagged shard of glass oozed blood from the toes of his left foot. He coughed, choking on dust and phlegm, then straightened. A helicopter flew by overhead, bright light blinding both as he shouted to be heard.

_"I came to find you-!"_

* * *

**04:47 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Hissing smoke. Plumes of water. Another building on the southwest side of the plaza leaned, shuddering, the grating of steel and falling plate glass like a terrible ocean roar. Blazing sirens. Whirring lights. Helicopters tossed cyclones of dust for hundreds of feet, spirals of toxic asbestos and glass… Everywhere there were uniforms, tiny people in uniforms, dwarfed by the overwhelming ruins.

Ruins not fifteen hours old.

Ruins under which thousands of people remained buried…perhaps alive.

"_This is an emergency broadcast for any families of Legacy victims!"_ Rebecca James shouted urgently. _"Police request-I repeat police request assistance in search and recovery! All family and friends are encouraged to call their loved ones!"_

More sheets of shattering glass. The building groaned again.

_"Police believe these calls crucial in locating any survivors buried within the Plaza itself—"_

Chris Holden was shouting something in her headset, unintelligible, she had to focus, to concentrate, had to get the word out—

Joists buckled. Walls groaned. The roof began to cave-

_"Again, police urge continuous calling to any believed victims of the Legacy attack—"_

Gibberish. Jarbled static. Dust was rising so fast, so fast!

Finally, a clear signal-

"_Beck, get the fuck out of there!"_

* * *

**The Fountainhead**

No, no, Not again not again! "Oh fuck, NO!" Renee shouted, "NO!" Leaning, groaning, the Old National Bank shuddered and slipped, millions of tons of lethal glass, steel and concrete raining in hellish hail to the ground-emergency workers!-below.

Coughing. Rising dust. Montoya tucked her head to her chest, pulling the cloth of her uniform over her face. Choking. Retching. Suffocating, _Can't breathe—!_

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Shit!" Milton shouted as TV 18 blinked into static. "Damn, damn, damn-"

Wayne had gotten the word out…but had it been enough? And Jesus, had he just watched him die?

* * *

**04:50 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"Mr. Wayne got through." Lucius Fox said suddenly. "Look."

"Lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree," Bradley said, leaning forward to take a closer look at the now bright monitors. Where before were empty stretches of black or hazy grey, came solid white lines, dancing and wavering slowly across the screens. Gotham City Plaza flickered, condensed, solidified. Sound waves were compression waves, able to move only through a medium-and in denser media, traveled faster, carried farther, and remained more distinct.

Over thirteen thousand separate signals fleshed her out from the ground up, illuminating six square blocks of rubble and dangerous debris. People had taken refuge in cars, entryways, sewers…even the fucking portapotties. But most did not reveal good news. Some figures moved, pulsed, marked by Fox with a flickering red icon-Status Urgent. Living. Others…had not been so fortunate, nothing more than heaps of crushed and twisted bone. Silicon, plastic and microchips were hardier than the fragile carbon and calcium structures that form the human machine.

"Unfortunately, human body tissues are difficult to distinguish," Fox continued, forwarding the morphing map to the Tracking Room. "Under normal circumstances, in the open air, sounds waves in the human hearing range are undetectable or far too weak—echolocation works primarily through multiple reflective surfaces—"

"But in a matrix—"

Fox nodded with what could almost be a smile. "Exactly."

* * *

**05:01 EST  
1900 E. Philadelphia Dr., Apartment #3578**

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

Cameron Shaw rolled groggily off the couch, landing with a slight oof! on the living room carpet. Her purse. Her phone. She crawled tiredly over, brushing tangled hair from her eyes, plunging a hand into the Gucci bag, feeling for the vibrating phone.

Chris Holden? Damn.

* * *

**05:03 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room**

"Shit, Old National!" Milton shouted. "I'm showing here it leaned to the Southwest, so we're damn lucky. If it went the other way the brunt of the debris would've hit the Plaza proper—"

Lawless shuddered. All those people-

Not twelve hours ago that had been his fear: according to Gordon, a year ago the bastard had planned to be locked in the MCU. He easily could have been planning a second attack, a crippling blow against Public Service Personnel.

But Hell, they didn't even know it was _him._

This whole thing reeked. Fucked up. Senseless, mass, wanton violence, careless of collateral…

It both did, and didn't, seem like that Bastard's style.

It felt, if anything, more like Fear Night…

Lawless paced in front of the dust caked windows, a tired hand over his left temple, fingers in his sweaty auburn hair. _The Kid. Paltron. All those people…_

_Where the fuck was the Batman when you needed him?_

* * *

**05:11 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"Old National?" Lucius asked with sudden alarm. "On the Southwest corner of the plaza?"

Bradley nodded somberly. "Yeah."

It was significant. Somehow. But he was so tired, exhausted, worn. He placed his weathered hands against his forehead, pressing his eyes, trying to think…Old National. Not twenty-hours ago he had stood in its shadow, Nichelle and Mikeala holding white helium balloons, mouths bright with cherry popsicle, sweaty and smiling in the heat…

Southwest corner, the Legacy had leaned on its Southwest corner…

…._Bruce—!_

* * *

**05:22 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

No rest for the wicked.

Seventy-eight more victims had poured in. Jennifer Hanson on the radio again, Trauma One bringing another victim. Forty year old female. Crush syndrome. Medics would be standing by—

RN Amy Lawless removed shards of glass from an open wound, fingers trembling with caffeine, nerves, lack of sleep. Her patient sat, wincing in pain, eyes dull and listless. The walls, halls, even floor were littered with more dust-covered victims staring blankly out of her. Some clutched wounds, tearing in pain. Agonal gasps. Sobs.

Others simply stared. Too numbed, too shocked, to feel. Emotionless, lidless eyes like some pale, slimy aquatic creature whose ancestors became entrapped in a cave pool, sightless, swollen eyes growing baleful and unseeing.

Skin, clothes, hair all that same, dreadful grey, a faceless, impersonal mob of the dead and dying. Bright red blood the only color in this spectrumless hell. Quiet moan. Hydrogen peroxide. Bubbling blood and froth. She fastened a bandage in place with a tegaderm.

She stretched her hand for the next victim, feeling this stream of people—like this night—would never end.

* * *

**05:25 EST  
Gotham City Plaza**

Darkness. Silence.

"Is anyone there!" Anyone there, anyone there, anyonethereanyere….

…Alone.

_OhGodohChristpleasehelppleasehelptrappedaloneinthe darknessnolightnohopenoair-!_  
A gentle stirring, a quiet moan. Aching eyes, burning throat, sudden sob. And that hand—that soft hand!—for one fleeting moment moved in his.

But only once. And only for a moment.

* * *

**05:31 EST  
Wayne Mobile Ops Center**

_Open door squint in blinding light charge down stairs across rubble can't breath can't see keep going stumble fall get up old man, get up—!_

"Where the hell you think you're going, man?" Eugene Bradley shouted, scrambling over shards of metal debris after his deranged partner. "What the hell are you doing—!"

"I have to find Mr. Wayne!" T_hey didn't understand couldn't understand Bruce was the Batman the only hope this city had Thomas' son he had to find him couldn't let him go missing again—!_

_Get up old man, get up!_

Lucius let out a shout of pain and collapsed again, the GCPD officer easing the fall.

"The fuck you do!" the technician shouted over the blades of an overhead chopper, hauling Fox to his feet, his left leg buckling—

"You don't understand!" Fox cried,"We have to find him, I…I have to find him!"

Blades whirring dust rising no way in hell this man was leaving he was the only one, the only one who knew how to operate that damn machine they were all going to prison but they had to save lives, goddamnit, had to save as many as possible hundreds thousands couldn't let them go just for _one man—!_

But Bradley wasn't a father, a husband, grandfather or godfather. Didn't—couldn't—understand what compelled his companion, this man in his sixties, to _clawstrugglefighttear away,_ try to run on a fractured tibia go careening blind into that nightmarish hell for just one man all consequences damned against himself and others…

…but he understood his duty.

Heart dropping, mind steeling Officer Eugene Bradley steered his way back to the Ops Center, half-supporting, half-dragging his reluctant companion. The helicopter flew by again: National Guard. Who knew how many precious hours, minutes, seconds they had left? How many lives they could save?

_Christ, not a medic no blood that's good just elevate here let's get some ice…_

More than one, he repeated firmly to himself. More than one.

* * *

******05:36 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza  
**

_Breathing…difficult.. Moving..can't. Can't move…getting darker, going down, down, down like riding the express elevator from the Penthouse—_

And then a familiar voice, desperate and unlooked for: "_What's the point of all those push ups, Master Wayne, if you can't even lift a simple log!"_

Bruce Wayne came to, arms extended over his chest, elbows locked and shaking, eyes focusing in the dim light. His hands were bloodied and gritty, supporting a section of smooth, marble flooring both taller and thicker than himself.

_Jesus, Alfred,_ the billionaire breathed. But the manservant was no where to be seen. But this wasn't Wayne Manor. Wasn't a dream. A nightmare. It was real. He was still alive, still the Batman…and Gotham City needed him now more than ever.

With a grunt he edged from under the flooring, sneezing on dust, squinting in the terrible light. He let the edge go, the marble dropping with tolling finality, another great cloud of dust. God, it could have crushed a man easily…He shuddered, rising shakily to his feet, pulling his ruined shirt-collar over his aching nose and mouth—

The Legacy. Victims. EMF, had to tell them, spread the message, he had been looking for a woman—

James. He was standing right beside her when the wave of debris hit-cold, terrible feeling in his gut he dropped to his knees, clawing frantically at the edge of the marble. "Rachel!" he shouted hoarsely. "_RACHEL—!_"

* * *

**05:51 EST  
The Fountainhead**

God.

If there was a God. Freezing spray, sooty ash, choking dust. Detective Renee Montoya raised her dark, swollen eyes through a curtain of nappy hair to the Hell vomited through the center of Gotham City, smoke rising like warm steam from a dying creature's open entrails.

So much life. So much hope…gone. Destroyed.

Eerie swills of red and blue, red and blue reflected in scintillating myriads of thousands of windows. Bright white, blinding glare of a holocaust star. Darkness. Dust. Despair.

She blinked slowly, raised her head.

Another light grew dimly on the horizon, sickly yet strong. It wavered, flickering fleetingly through a cover of inky clouds. A feeling. A hope. A whisper. A shout—!

Parched lips parted. A single tear forming, freezing on her face.

_…Dawn._

Shot with pink, laced with lavender, the first fingers of cerulean began creeping over this kingdom of darkness.

* * *

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

The sun. Damn. The Sun. Adrenaline surge over nothing left but shaky limbs sweat soaked clothes covered in grey dust coughing coughing so determined to get here to make a damn difference to not stand by and do nothing wet eyes upturned, drinking in every ray a frozen statue on the marble steps of GCPD headquarters Officer Crispus Allen looked to the pale light lingering in the East, for a moment not comprehending what it was he saw.

What was it? Awe, amazement, jet lag, lack of sleep…effects of stress? Both beautiful and terrible at the same time…the closet thing he'd ever felt to believing in God—

_Must be the stress_, he whispered.

* * *

**Gotham City Plaza**

Silence. For one heart-stopping second it seemed all sirens ceased to scream, all lights stopped their humming, all radios their static—

Six hundred and eleven Paramedics, Firemen, Red Cross, Police, National Guardsmen and Normal, Everyday Citizens stood stock still, faces turned eastward, eyes uplifted, hearts—like hopes, like the infant sun—rising.

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Milton and Lawless on the radio, s_end more crews to the Plaza, too many structural instabilities, more could fall at any time the Fountainhead was leaning I was an Orthopedic Surgeon, okay just keep the leg elevated, keep ice on it—_

Jim Gordon raised his tired eyes. Something on the wall. He reached a tired hand to brush it. Dirt? A stain—? But it was moving…smoke?

Yes. But _moving_. Its shadow billowing still over his outstretched hand—

Heart dropping feet turning mind spinning it could only mean one thing:

…the sun was rising.

The sun was rising! Jim Gordon stumbled to the windowsill, marble cold under his quavering hands. The Sun. Was. Rising. Pierced to the heart, newfound strength pulsing with the waxing light, he knew this moment, this feeling, the Gates of Hell, the Rising Sun, hope unlooked for when all hope seemed lost—

Horns. Rohirrim. Horses charging from the rising sun.

Tolkien's Eucatastophe. That awful, agonizing beauty where one could cry Death not in defeat but defiance, face one's foes with little hope of victory but hope nonetheless. For no matter how deep the darkness, how black the night, bitter the storm, above it all the sun rode still—!

…and would. It was a promise. A small one, perhaps, but a promise nonetheless: As long as the world remains, winter and summer, spring time and harvest, day and night shall not cease.

He smiled wearily, wiping tired eyes on a dusty shirtsleeve. The Sun was rising…and the Ark doors were open. Maybe to devastation, destruction, chaos and death…but not utter. Whatever the odds, despite the risks, there were victims still alive, soldiers, paramedics, volunteers still climbing through rubble to rescue them, risking their safety and very lives for the sake of strangers.

A sudden shot of pink and yellow, premature over the horizon, growing and swirling like the Aurora Borealis, brighter and brighter, a falling tear, a dazzling obelisk of white gold. Long, black shadows still lurking behind every skyscraper, western sky still dark, the infant sun's rays not strong enough to pierce the darkness, but She was rising nonetheless.

His fingers clinched around the sill, filled with new-found strength of heart. Gotham hadn't given up hope. Not yet.

Neither would he.

* * *

**06:01 EST  
Gotham City Plaza**

Choking dust. Tinkering glass. The Foutainhead looming ominously. EMS worker Jennifer Hanson turned slowly on the spot, overwhelmed with the beauty of the breaking dawn, with the enormity of the destruction, mountains of twisted metal, broken concrete, scintillating glass like myriads of diamonds, and the spinning lights, lights, lights—

There. Something in the distance, hazy and uncertain from Old National's death throes. A wavering shadow through a spotlight beam, growing stronger coming closer, a lone figure through the fog of dust and light.

She stared. Squinted. It was a man. Walking. A red-haired woman limp and lifeless in his arms.

The specter disappeared. The man had fallen.

Jen began to run.

* * *

**06:14 EST  
Gotham United Methodist**

"I suppose, Shaw, what the Citizens of Gotham—and the US, really—want to know is: who is responsible for these attacks? And who is in charge of the Crisis in Gotham City?"

CNN. Hell of a thing to have on in the break room. More visuals of the attack, its grisly aftermath, replay after replay of the sequence leading up to what must have been the initial explosion, Trisha Tanaka's famous face frozen in that confused, wondering stare-

Amy Lawless shuddered. She had no doubts the woman was dead. And Governor Richards. And anyone in that frame. All those anonymous, unknown faces. Dead. Gone.

"…Well, to be honest, we really don't know at this point," the blonde reporter returned. "We have received no word concerning Governor Richards, and Lt. Governor Stephanie Miller has yet to take the oath of office. News of Mayor Garcia's discovery was only just released to the Press—he's currently listed in critical condition at Gotham United Methodist."

The RN blanched, leaving the empty room for the abandoned hall. She didn't want to be in that room. Not with that TV program on. Not sitting on that couch. Not with the memories—and regrets—of what she'd done there.

_It was late—or early. Census was low. Her shift had been called off._

_She didn't bother calling home, didn't want to wake Ian. Or Aaron. They were both run down, sleep deprived…these mandatory third shifts and that goddamned Stop the Violence were splitting her marriage into pieces…_

_It started with that Joker bastard. Investigating all those murders. Long, unpredictable hours, constant midnight emergencies, urgent phone calls, press conferences…depression…Aaron had been gone so much. So much-_

_And then Gotham General. And she had been left frantically scrabbling for a job, after months of searching catching a seven to seven night shift at Methodist-_

_Shit. Crying again._

_She wiped her eyes. Gritted her teeth. Aaron was a good man. Good husband. She would be less of a person to ask him to be anything but what he was. And she wasn't going to be like that Bitch Jess, she had promised herself from the day they met. Wasn't going to let jobs, careers, long hours-days apart, on call shifts come between them…_

_She turned the engine off, parked on the street. Came in quietly through the back door. The orange glow of the neighbor's garage lights filtered in through the windows. She didn't speak, didn't even put her purse down stood confused in wondering silence…_

_Jimmy was spending the night again. Sprawled out on the couch, already fast asleep. Her husband was bent over the couch, untying his partner's shoes in the dark. Innocent enough. He tossed the comforter over his prone form, turned to leave—_

_But a scrawny white arm held him back._

_That's when it happened. Her entire world falling apart, so angry so anguished she forgot to breathe—_

_Nausea sickness how could I be so stupid why would he do this to me! Her husband, her Aaron sat on the edge of the sofa, pulled the boy into his arms, hands caressing his back, that face laid gently against his chest, cuddling closer, those slender, girlish fingers now laid tentatively against her husband's beard, a scratchy kiss left against the boy's forehead—_

_Her husband's arms. Her sacred place. In her own goddamned home. With her son—their son!—upstairs! Driving driving careening in out of traffic how could I be so fucking stupid? Another woman she would have been crushed upset distraught—_

_—but another MAN? Good God Aaron what the fuck—!_

_And she had let it go on. Let that miserable fag into her house, her life. Stupidstupidstupid! God how had she been so blind! Aaron's hands always on Jimmy's small shoulders, his arms, the small of his back, ruffling those silky curls—_

_How many other men had he been with? Had he used protection? AIDS. Hepatitis. Her Aaron! Her husband. Ohshitohshitofuckfuckfuck!_

_She parked the car. Back at work. Sobbing into the steering column. Nauseating images Jimmy face down Aaron on top of him Christ who knew they were doing it in her house right now—_

_She threw up. Chunks of vomit pouring down the dash, her lap, sticky in her hair._ _A sudden knocking. She jumped, startled, looking upwards through hot tears and messy locks:_

_…Mark._

Floor to ceiling windows. Grimed with that same, greyish dust, sickly sunlight just beginning to filter through.

But it brought no hope, no release. Amy Lawless stared emotionlessly down at the wreckage below, skyscrapers throwing long, black shadows over a barren wasteland, Gotham's desolation spreading for blocks upon empty blocks…

The rising sun. like the truth, only made her nightmare worse. The dawn was back…but this Hell remained, the sun's rays merely bringing more suffering. Like learning the boy had been abused, never held by a father an_d I can do that for him Ames I can give him that chance he's never had they hurt him those bastards hurt him fucked with his mind that's all he's ever known all's he's ever known he's been terrified he'll grow up to be just like them he's a Kid just a Kid I can help him I can help him I know I can help him-_

...like learning her husband had never broke their faith, was still the man—ten times the man!—she had ever known him to be.

And because of that one awful moment of weakness and guilt, finding herself wishing—no, _preferring—_it wasn't so.

Before she'd thought she wanted this night to end. Now she wished the sun had never risen

* * *

**06:17 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Convent**

Metal cuffs digging into wrists. Rough cloth covering face. Voices. Footsteps…

Sudden searing light. Jesus Guerrero squinted, eyes tearing in pain. A sickening of smoke wafted into his nostrils. He began to cough.

Salazar Meroni sat not three feet away, smoking serenely.

"Motherfucker," Jesus spat. "Go to Hell."

"Ah," the Italian drawled sardonically. "Mr. Guerrero. You're finally awake."

"You operating out of a church, 'mano? You are sick bastard, sick!"

"Not operating out of a church. Merely using it as a front. I have nothing to do with any corruption that goes on _behind _these walls. Father Benedict sees to that without my help. But he is not my concern. We bring ….monetary donations, and nothing more. The sisters have an account for the soup kitchen, and our laundered money is placed into the bank…then distributed into Gotham through hundreds and thousands of businesses and customers. Innoculous. Invisible. Untraceable."

"They should never have touch your money!" Guerrero spat. "It's blood money. _Sucio_."

"Yes," Meroni stated, smile gone. "It's blood money. And some of it—it seems superfluous to remind you—is _yours._ The good Father voiced many of the same complaints…and turned us down. But after Sisters of Mercy burned the church was sued, and all those detectives began sniffing around…. Well, the poor Father's personal comfort suffered horribly. The price of…certain human commodities hasn't decreased," he smiled lewdly, lips pulled tight into a lusty sneer. "So after much thought and deliberation, he returned to tell us even the Pharisees used blood money to buy a field to bury the poor," then that smile faded into ruinous disgust. "Why should feeding them be any different?"

Speechless. Agony.

Sisters of Mercy. Forty-seven children dead. Thirteen Sisters. Only four survivors…Dumas. Juarez. Connolly and Kyle. Sickening feeling. Burning, tremors of adrenaline. All those lives—all those kids—! That. BASTARDO. Guerrero sputtered in horror and rage. "Y-you! You were behind that fire! You killed all those children, the nuns—!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Guerrero. I—as you have found so recently yourself—have not the stomach for taking the lives of innocent children", here, Meroni leaned forward, blowing more smoke into the heaving Latino's face, that leering, knowing smile still etched on his lips. "But having happened, I found it to be a business opportunity far too profitable to pass up."

The Mafioso took another long drag. "So take the log out of your own eye, first, you miserable Spic Bastard. Give me one good reason I shouldn't hold you and hand you over to the Joker myself."

Silence. Lips trembling, cold, dripping beads of sweat. Meroni placed a recorder on the table between them, one finger poised over the PLAY button. He pressed it slowly, sensuously, eyes never leaving his victim's face. "I have done, terrible thing…I do not think God can forgive me."

"Although that wouldn't be necessary. I'm sure the Police would be equally as interested…" Meroni laughed darkly. "You pitiful fool. You told the good Father here you were only in charge of part of this shit. Idiot. He had bigger plans! Backup, in case someone failed. And you did. He didn't come to us…and that means the Russians. Karena. Ivanovitch…Nabokov."

That last name sent shudders up even Meroni's back, gooseflesh rising. He paused, and continued. "Even if they don't succeed in breaking Him out…they're coming for you, Guerrero. You're a wanted man. The only question is…are you worth more to me dead, or alive?"

Jesus swallowed nervously. "I give you another million."

Meroni cocked his head to the left. Ever so slightly. "Gambol offered a million for the Joker. _Up the stakes._"

"Two-two million."

He chuckled. "Paltry pennies, Mr. Guerrero."

"Five! Five million!"

"Apparently you have no reflexes for self-preservation, Mr. Guerrero. I don't want your _money._"

"Ten! Ten! I, I-_qué?"_

"You're playing for real this time, you uppity, arrogant shit. Against those far wiser and more experienced than you can imagine. I want another commodity. Far more precious. Decidedly more dangerous: your power. Your influence. Your territory. I am the head of the Family…but the kingdom I inherited is dreadfully shrunk, and it's coffers dry. Think of it as a tax, Mr. Guerrero. You…live. I keep your drugs, your peddlers, your customers…your profits."

Silence.

Sadness. "It's all about money, 'mano. It's always about the money," Jesus whispered, raising his eyes in both humiliation and disgust "So don't be _arrogante,_ yeah? You ain't no different than I am."

Meroni scowled. "Your answer?"

"_Chingate,_" the broken Latino finally whispered. But both knew what that cryptic insult really meant: yes.

"You pathetic child," The Mafioso addressed him as a wayward pupil. "You wanted a piece of Gotham? Gotham belongs to us—the Elite. In the last year, we've grown stronger. Stronger than the Russians. The Batman. The Police…even the Joker. _La Casa Nostra_ is rising to their rightful place of power, not your pathetic dogpack the Latin _Pigs…_"

He blew another ring of smoke, cold eyes narrowing. "There's a new sun rising in Gotham, Mr. Guerrero…._Mine._"

He quashed the cigar with a sudden slash of his fist. Fading smoke rose in slow, swirling circles. Red embers darkened, turned to ash, and scattered.

"I suggest you make the most of it."


	13. Fortis

_**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**_

_**AN: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! As a peace-offering for the long break between updates, I present you with another chapter in record time.  


* * *

**_**August 26****th**

**21:07 EST**

**TV 18 Studios**

I wake.

The TV 18 lobby is nearly deserted. Few remain. Wayne. Fox. Gordon. All gone. Lawless leans over me, his lined face drawn and haggard.

"Time to go." He offers his hand-a gesture of courtesy he has never before extended. In six years of partnership I have always been his equal. Like me, the scales fall suddenly from his eyes…but it is far too late. I am Lady McBeth: I have been unsexed. And now-_now!_- Lawless finds me both weak and a woman.

Two things I have tried for years to forget.

_Fear night. Gotham State Prison. _

_They've heard Arkham's been breached, the city nearly destroyed…terrorist attack, all reserves called in, national guardmen…they have all descended on the city, and there's no one left to send. They know now is the opportune time, the only time. The largest prison riot in US history is being tended to by less than 50 officers. By the time we arrive, the riot has been in suit for nearly 16 hours….The good news? Most of the guards were able to escape…. The Bad News? Trapped still inside are the remnants of the kitchen staff, a janitor, four women and three small children from visiting hours… and five faithful guards, who have now been on duty for more than 24 hours. They're bolted in the cafeteria office, a small room located on the south wall of the 60 yard long mess hall, surrounded by 120,000 square feet of fires, flickering electricity, and 600 of the state's worst offenders. _

_The batteries in the guard radios died hours ago, we've been unable to make contact…God only knows if they're still alive. In a low rush of whirring blades, SWAT joins us as we load up in riot gear. I heft a heavy, armored shield, hair plastered thick and sweaty to my face, Lawless stands next to me. _

"_Alright, men, listen up!" Hensley shouts. "Our objective is get those people the fuck out of there! We are NOT to use lethal force unless NECESSARY. We've got civies, women and kids in there and we're gonna bust 'em out! Logistics says NO live ammo-you bring live ammo in there and you risk it falling into the wrong hands! Our first priority and our ONLY priority is the safety of those people! Any questions? No? Then MOVE!"_

_We breach the perimeter, plastic explosives bring down the security door. Flashbangs are tossed in, deafening us. Yawning darkness and rising reek, power has been cut in order to keep all security doors locked. They've estimated perhaps half the inmates are still confined to their cell blocks…we are left with 300 sex offenders, murderers, serial killers and terrorists. Maximum security, unfortunately, was not one of the wards that remained under the electrical lock down. We will run in, blind and deaf, against an army of body building, blood crazed criminals whose only hope of liberty before age 70 is to kill us all… We run in blind, sending our small force against the terrible wrath of Leonidas…_

"_Clear!" We run as one, memories of both Mortalis and my stay in Memorial flashing through my head. Lawless is next to me, panting as we hit the end of the release tunnel-_

_Another explosion. The heavy chain link bangs open. Chaos. Mayhem. Fires burn. Hallways littered, water lines clogged, we slosh through sewage and the flotsam of floating bodies, ruined furniture-_

"_LOOK OUT!" An inmate swings a fire extinguisher, our man goes down into the dirty water. He raises it again, rubber bullets piercing his flesh-_

_Shouts. Shots. They've raided the security armory. We're sitting blind in the open entry way, staggering through three feet of water carrying over fifty pounds of Kevlar and steel. Sixteen years ago, Masterchief would've called this 'Strategic Position Deep Shit'. _

_I relay it to Lawless. _

"_No fucking kidding!" He shouts. "Initiate Operation Get the Hell out of Here! Cafeteria's to the left! Head that way-!" Shields up, debris and rounds pinging off them we inch through the disgusting water, the rancid scent of sewage searing our lungs-_

_Rotten stench, foul water, flames flickering smoke choking I send one sprawling into the reek with a double tap to the head. We lead the way to the cafeteria, plodding slowly across the open expanse-_

_The door is wedged shut, we shove and strain, forming a wall to shield those who must drop their guard to force open the doors. Rubber bullets into the locks. Ramming shields, ring of metal on metal. Plastic explosive, we duck under our shields, a terrible wave or rancid water pouring over us. _

_It is oily and putrid. It smells like-_

_A lighter is tossed from the second floor, falling in a slow, graceful arc towards the dark waters below-_

"_Get down!" I force Lawless under as a sea of hamburger grease ignites on the surface. A sickening rushing noise our backs singed the surface boiling, lungs straining no air, no air-!_

_With a gasp I surface and stand. Noisome scent of burning flesh. At least ten of our men are dead, floating limply in the oily water, burning still. Lawless staggers to his feet, I grip his arm. He is shell shocked, eyes wide, mouth gaping, a burning corpse floats gently by…._

_Chaos rages all around. Furniture, food, bodies, bullets rain from the balcony. Nearly fifty men stand between us and the far door, desperate to reach their prey before we do. Leverage. Some hope to buy their way out with hostages…_

_Others don't give a fuck about escaping._

_Brackish water runs down my face, hair slicked and soaking, dripping in my eyes. We are in the calm, the eye of the storm. Lawless looks like he may faint-_

"_Lawless!" I smack his face. "Lawless!" He blinks, eyes focusing. He sees me, and for a long, long moment he simply stares. _

"_Lawless!" I shout again. Finally he answers me._

"_I'm getting too old for this shit." He grunts as I hand him his shield, relief washing like a cold wave over me. _

"_Fall back! Fall back to the Southeast corner!" Hensley shouts. "Southeast corner!"_

_There are thirty of us left standing. Beaten, bruised and burned. Anyone alive had to have taken refuge under the churning water….and the arms we now hold are useless. _

"_Alright, men, this is how it's going down. We've still got plastics, tazers, clubs…tear gas-"_

"_Sir, you've got to call for backup. Ain't no fucking way we can get through this!"_

"_We've still got to wade out with 'em! Ain't no way in hell we can protect 16 civies!"_

"_We don't have to get 'em out of here, just get between these bastards and that door-"_

_They're wrong. No help is coming. It is up to us, and only us. Selling our lives dearly to buy time will not help them…it may still be days before they are reached…_

_Am I the only one who sees? We need to kill them. All of them. _

"_Here's the plan!" Hensley shouts as bullets ping off our shields, ricocheting into the water below. "We're going to march along the eastern wall and try to cut between them-!"_

_As one we scan the wall. Protected above by the balcony's overhang….open to the side, the front, the back. Sparta. Rome. We must use our shields to form a defensive shell…_

_We form a line, two deep, Hensley tosses two flashbangs across the room, dirty water, smoke and light briefly illuminating every corner of this dark hell. He turns to us-_

_-and his pale face becomes an apoplectic shade of purple. "What the fuck!" He shouts. "Who the hell let _HER _in here?"_

_Dirty water falls into my eyes, eardrums numbed by the blast. I couldn't have heard that right-_

"_Change of plan! We go three deep!" He shouts. "I want G.I. Jane here in the middle closest to the wall-"_

"_Sir-!"Lawless is incredulous. _

"_I don't need a girl in my way!" I'm a woman. A lia-fuckingbility. If this thing goes down, it'll have his name all over it. Even in the midst of a war zone a beaurocrat will reveal himself. Sixteen civilians, and thirty officer's lives hang in the balance…and still his priority is covering his ass. _

"_Sir, I'm an officer just like anyone else-!" I shout furiously, blood boiling. Sixteen civilians, four of them women, three of them small children…Gotham City is under terrorist attack, no one else is coming, we can't afford to waste any more time-can't afford to send anyone away-!_

_Surreal. Debris continues to rain down on us. They are pouring down the stairs, brandishing shanks, knives, fire extinguishers…. They are closing on us. Soon they will have us hemmed-_

"_Hensley!" _

"_I've got thirty officers, sixteen hostages, 600 prisoners and three million dollars of equipment to look after! I don't have time to worry about protecting you. STAND DOWN!" Spit sprays my riot mask._

_Fear. Tempers. Adrenaline. Testosterone. Stress._

"_HENSLEY!"They are nearly here-Hensley no longer the only one keenly interested in my gender. I can feel their gazes, hear their cat-calls. They are coming for me. Ten men move in front of me, Lawless among them. _

_Hensley ignores them, continues to shout, spit flying from his mouth, tunnel vision, stress taking it's toll-he is blind to the chaos around him, can't feel, smell, taste the acrid water around him, doesn't see the army forming around us….he is panicking…and he only has eyes for me. _

_I am shaking in rage. Protect me? In the last three years I've lost 60 pounds of muscle. I'm now feminine, lean, lithe…but not weak. I am just as spry and deadly as I ever was in Underworld. Protect me? Sixteen years ago a grenade landed, seconds to detonation I pull my helmet off burying it deep into the sand…Protect me? Gerald's fingernails scream across the linoleum, long, raking shreds pulling out of tile, carpet, plaster…_

_I am death, I am a hunter. I am vengeance. I am fury. Four women, three small children. If these bastards break that door… Angel!_

_Suddenly I am running, shrieking, breaking formation, riot shield tight in my hands I spin and hurl it with all my might through the crowd of inmates before me. "PALTRON!!" Lawless shouts-_

"_HEY! You want some of this? You want some of this!" _

_I am Samson. I am David. Shank raises lunges for my neck I break fingers, wrist, arm, nose, it falls epilepsyflashingroaring they toss more flashbangs towards the north door another mountain of muscle another outstretched hand I bury the shank in his left carotid it is slick and slimy with blood my face splattered Lawless next to me shouting shouting more explosions men come rushing we charge desperately towards that door I was too late too late to save Angel I will not be late again-!_

We lost five more men. None of the hostages…

…And we fucking killed them _all. _

Lawless opens the glass doors for me, one hand gently on the small of my back. My eyes burn and prick in the sudden orange glow of a buzzing streetlight. Again I try uselessly to excuse my tears.

_Angel._ In both life and death, his memory makes me both terribly weak…and horribly strong.

* * *

**August 26****th**

**21:10 EST**

**103****rd**** Street**

Concerned. But not condescending. Lawless watched me walk in here…he will help me walk out. No bullshit, no 'it's too far, you really shouldn't, let me get the car.' He is strength, he is steadfast…

We take the long walk to our…to _his_ cruiser, one of his large hands still pressed gently on the small of my back, strong arm supporting me as I limp gingerly on my throbbing right leg. She is a beautiful car-sleek and black. Six years of memories.

None of which include me riding in the backseat. Briefly Lawless may have doubted my sanity, even now he doubts my failing body…but he has never doubted my heart.

* * *

**August 26****th**

**21:16 EST**

**103****rd**** Street**

Outside. It is dark and cool-a light wind offering small respite from my still burning fever. Several hours of sleep and two gallons of force-fed Gatorade have done little to heal me.

Sleek black sides. Bright, polished chrome. Gotham's harrowing nightsky reflects in her multi-faceted frame, myriads of lights in telescoping torrents, lost in the domed curvature of the open sky.

Lawless reaches around me to open the passenger side door. _A young officer sits inside, turns his face towards us, dark eyes gleaming-_

I gasp and stop dead.

Lawless looks down at me, mistaking my faltering for pain. "You alright?" He speaks softly, hesitation in his eyes, his normally gruff voice soothed with concern.

I have seen this hesitation before-this gentleness. But it wasn't directed towards me.

_April 22nd. Darkness-but the night is far from still. Red and blue lights swirl lazily, casting the neighborhood in an eerie glow, rain slamming down in machine-gun bursts. _

_Chinatown. I park, yank the keys and the beating wipers die in mid-sweep. The seat belt snakes between my breasts as I shove the door and dash for the porch, feet instantly freezing in the rising flood. _

_Hair plastered to my face, cold drops running down my back a young officer runs out with an umbrella. "What do we have, Officer?" I shout above the pattering downpour and rumbling thunder._

"_Triple homicide. They think it was Vladimir Nabokov-" _

_Bastard. Been at large since Fear Night. Lawless and I put the motherfucker behind bars not five years ago. He's a rapist…and a monster. Gerald's death is nothing compared to this. And now he's back, tormenting the civilians we have sworn to protect._

_Too shrouded in my own anger I do not see. It is only now I realize it is his small, boyish hand that holds open the door for me._

_Silence. The deluge of rain is muted and dulled. There is neither jibing or jesting. Nabokov's work is harrowing…and horrible._

_Kitchen. Hallway. Faces stony, eyes red. Bedroom. Three naked girls lie sprawled across the bed. The eldest is maybe thirteen. The youngest…five. Yet it is difficult to say, their fragile Han features are as delicate, as still as the faces of the pale, porcelain dolls lining the shops of Chinatown. _

_A deep growl. Lawless is at my side. "I ID'd it. But we need you to confirm." Good man. Good cop. CSI hasn't had time to move, to contaminate anything…_

_I am sure. But I must confirm. I edge closer, and each dead face stares up at me, dark eyes open. For a moment, each is Angel. Nabokov, you motherfucker…I was nearly too late to save Angel's life. I am far, far too late to help these girls._

_Lawless offers gloves. I trust him explicitly, but work must be done. As MCU Lieutenant, I must confirm this falls under my jurisdiction. "Do we have a name?" I ask emotionlessly._

"_Jane Doe one and two. We have a positive ID on her-" He indicates the eldest. "Xiao Wang. This is her parent's house-we think she may have been babysitting. We still haven't been able to contact."_

_I brush aside Xiao Wang's long hair, and there, cut through the flesh of her tiny, pre-pubescent breast is a dark and bloody N. It's done with at the flat end of a seal, heated on the kitchen stove until the iron glows red hot, flesh sizzling and peeling back. The putrid smell of burnt hair and fat still saturates the air. _

"_Bastard." Is all I say._

"_Confirmed!" Lawless barks to CSI. "Lt. Paltron is now in charge of this investigation!"_

_I nod to them. "Get me evidence." Cameras. Swabs. UV lights, proteins and body fluids lighting up in the darkness…_

_I walk the responding officers through the drill, Lawless at my side. Even in light of this horror it feels right, natural. It is only now I realize how much I have missed working the street. It has been over four months since I left Homicide…_

_Finally I realize what is missing: Aaron's new shadow. His rookie partner…Jim? James? Or am I confusing him with Gordon?_

"_How's Connolly shaping up?" _

"_Connolly?" Fred Milton asks disinterestedly, about to crack the first joke of the evening. "He takes some getting used to. But he's not a bad gay—I mean guy."_

"_He's a damn good Kid." Lawless growls, shooting a glare to Milton. His irreverence knows no bounds. _

_I smile bitterly, opening the file in my hands, lost in a rush of adrenaline at the sight of Nabokov's sneering face. Between him and Doestoiveski, it is hard to say who is worse. Whatever else he is, Dmitri has the decency not to fuck little kids. _

"_Where is he? Connolly, I mean." I flip another page, noting his absence among the assembled officers._

"_Outside," Lawless says. "He didn't need to see this."_

_I drop the file, it scatters across the kitchen floor, papers sticking to the dampened tile. I do not bend to retrieve it. I raise my eyes slowly to Lawless'. His says nothing. I've known him long enough that silence speaks volumes. Something is wrong. Off. _

_EMS struggles through the door, dragging wheeled stretchers and muddy turf over the carpet. Everyone's eyes are turned to this unfeeling irony._

"_Send him in." I state quietly. _

"_I really don't think he needs to see this," Lawless counters. _

_I raise an eyebrow, but no explanation is forthcoming. "I think he does." Lawless calls him Kid. Treats him like a Kid. But he isn't-youngest cop in the US police force be damned, Connolly is an officer. And a rookie in goddamned Gotham City-a hazardous duty post for fucking sure. He needs to know what's out there. Naivety will only get him killed. And if he can't handle it-he has no business being a fucking cop._

"_I'm his partner. I think I know better than you what he-"_

"_And I'm your boss," I say coolly. "Or had you forgotten?" His statement is less than fifteen minutes old. "I want him on bagging detail."_

_Lawless is rigid. "No."_

"_Bradley!" I bark, raising my voice for the first time above a slight whisper. "Bring Connolly in. I want him helping EMS!" _

_Eugene's face is inscrutable. Milton busies himself with paperwork. Lawless glares, hazel eyes boring holes through mine. I turn away._

_Soaked to the skin, hair in dripping, matted locks against his ridiculously boyish face Connolly enters, shooting Lawless a curious look. Innocently, naively he follows Bradley to the waiting slaughter. _

_Shock. His lips part. Face pales. Those dark eyes widen, then clench closed. Horror and nausea wash in waves over him. Flitting open again, those eyes are wounded and wet with tears. Minutes pass. Still he is frozen, agonized at the sickening reality before him. _

_Lawless stands tense beside me, shaking under the overpowering urge to surge forward, pull him away, erase the horror of that image in the sure comfort of a strong embrace-_

Angel. I know that desire well. Had I seen, had I known, I would hold him in my arms, face pressed against my chest, kiss his head, his hair, his face, press him closer, fight away the wave of nightmares-

How was I so blind? His eyes are my Angel's eyes, dark and light, shot with tears, his face my Angel's face, stricken, brows knit in pain, tiny mouth falling open, lips parting…My son. My _child_. I still do not have the strength to think of him as a man.

A rough hand against my back. I sit heavily, Lawless still supporting me. One hand under my knees he swings me into the seat, tucking me into the car and closing the door.

I hate being treated so goddamned weak. Perhaps because I know I am.


	14. Pandora's Box

_**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**_

**AN: Ugh. Two months is way too long a time to go without updating. For anyone who hangs in there, thanks! As a warning, some events in this chapter will only make sense in light of an additional update to Aurora (chapter 12).

* * *

**

_**Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed in these two words: wait, and hope.**_

**--Edmund Dantes, The Counte of Monte Cristo

* * *

**

**GCPD Operation "NIGHTSTALKER"**

**Alias BATMAN. Real Name: UKNOWN. Status: INVESTIGATION ONGOING (PRIORITY)**

_The following is a copy of a document submitted to the Gotham City Star in the Public Opinions Section. Initial suspicions were roused when both the name and address of the writer were determined falsifications. Some believe this letter to be the work of the Batman himself. Currently, investigations are underway to accredit this letter to a Detective Aaron Lawless (MD). Language pathologists assisting MCU have encountered many syntax structures similar to those encountered in past submissions to The Lancet under Orthopedic Advancements, as well as a biographic work on Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. entitled Americans and Race: the Inherent Injustice of Equality. _

_Note: In light of recent events involving the death of two Gotham City Public Service Personnel, MCU has shifted it's priority target from the Vigilante Batman to a criminal labeling himself The Joker (See John Doe_ #387_). The investigations against Detective Lawless have currently been postponed._

_Additional Note: The Batman is now charged with the murder of District Attorney Harvey Dent. Subsequently, this document is believed to be crucial evidence to the Batman's identity. Investigations are ongoing._

_Further Note: Charges against Detective Lawless concerning masked vigilantism were subsequently investigated and dropped. In addition, allegations of publicizing protected information were also dropped as all figures appearing in this document were open to public perusal in the FEMA Fear Night report at the time of the article's original publication. _

_Final Note: This documents is believed to be no longer of any relevance to the hunt for the Batman._

**IN RESPONSE TO BAT-BASHING, RED-HOT READER WRITES BACK**

I am writing this column in response to Superintendent Reginald Baxter's Letter to the Editor entitled "Costumed Crusaders Bring Violence, Not Peace." In this letter, Baxter claims to objectively note that the "Batman has cost this city more in property damage than Fear Night itself." He also claims that full responsibility for numerous '"copy-cat crimes falls on the shoulders of this masked menace alone." He commences with the unbiased statement that "thanks to idolized vigilantism, Gotham's tax dollars are being wasted on replacing light poles and searching for a man with an identity crisis instead of fixing the real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption: poor educational systems and high unemployment rates."

Let me then be equally as unprejudiced:

Bulls----, Mr. Baxter.

If you want to talk objectively, let us talk objectively. But if you wish to be another one of thousands of under-researched, over-rehearsed opinions, have the b---s to own up to it.

Now, Mr. Baxter, let's talk objectively.

Fallacy the First: "Batman has cost this city more in property damage than Fear Night itself."

Contrary to Mr. Baxter's opinion, the majority of the damaged incurred by the Batman was posted against private automobile insurance companies, not against the city proper. Damage to road-ways and Public Properties for which the Batman is undeniably responsible totals to less than six million in damages, which is roughly three percent of the 165 million dollars of damage to public transit track, sewer mains and city roadways alone incurred on Fear Night.

Fallacy the Second: "And as if the presence of the Batman wasn't enough, in recent months there have been a surge of Batman impersonators and rogue vigilantes such as the Scarecrow whose methods of justice make even the most law-contemptuous bounty hunters seem tame. There can be no question the continued presence of Batman and the GCPD's enablement have brought further harm to this city. Clearly, the responsibility for the damages and deaths incurred by these copy-cat crimes falls on the shoulders of this masked menace alone."

First, I must question sincerely whether or not Mr. Baxter's final statements may be more accurate than I previously believed. Perhaps poor educational systems can explain his apparent inability to execute elementary arithmetic. Although in the above paragraph he specifically mentions two separate parties with culpability, he is only able to conclude there exists one culprit. Clearly, Gotham's tax-payers should complain not only against the costly repairs of streetlamps as a cause of the "poor educational systems" which constitute the "real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption."

Secondly, I must propose that the presence of additional vigilantes is more a fault of the second source which Mr. Baxter so blatantly ignores: the supposed "enablement" of the GCPD. However, in doing so I must immediately point out it is not the blame of the GCPD alone, nor should their creation of a task-force currently employing five detectives dedicated to the Batman's case alone be labeled "enablement." Like the "poor educational systems" (for which Mr. Baxter is responsible ), the GCPD and other law enforcement organizations are limited to the resources which Gotham gives them. Which the citizens of Gotham choose to give them. If more money is what is necessary to educate our children and keep our streets safe, wouldn't it be a better use of Mr. Baxter's time and energy to write a letter to the City Council about raising taxes instead of railing a man who only attempts to make up for what our current law enforcement agencies lack?

Fallacy the Third: "the real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption: poor educational systems and high unemployment rates."

The real problem behind crime and corruption not only in Gotham City but for our modern world as a whole does not stem from lack of funding poured into the public educational systems, but rather their investment into pedagogal ideologies that seek to misplace the responsibility of the individual onto an organization. We cannot afford to continue thinking that poor education and unemployment necessitate the presence of crime or corruption, or that they somehow justify the violence in our streets. Following this logic, it is GCPSC and the Chamber of Commerce which should 'justly' be held accountable for the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne, not their killer Joe Chill—just another unfortunate victim of substandard education and poverty, of whom we can hardly expect anything more.

The real problem this City and this Nation are facing is not the rise of the vigilantes, but rather the end of the age of personal responsibility. Over a hundred years ago, Freud proposed a system of psychoanalysis in which the suppression of the subconscious desire produced feelings of guilt and self-incrimination, and resultant low self-esteem was the sole cause of the current 'evils' of the world.

I must, with equal kindness and clarity as I have afforded Baxter, be frank enough to label this psychobabbling bulls—t.

Because before Sigmund Freud became the Founding Father of Psychology, there existed another group of men

Founding Father's created a Democracy, and in so doing, opened Pandora's Box. Freedom of thought, expression, and self-responsibility …But inherent in that belief is the knowledge that these unalienable rights can be misconstrued for evil. As citizens of a democracy (or what was once a democracy) we must be prepared to take the bad with the good, or we cannot take the good at all.

Since the appearance of the Batman, Gotham's citizens heard repeatedly that vigilantes demonstrate nothing but contempt for the law, and again I must argue that this concept contains a fundamental flaw. There are countless examples strewn throughout history of vigilants who have opposed the law in order to uphold a moral standard which they believe higher than human government, universal truths which unite us all. Vigilantes who have been willing both to fight and to die for a cause which they believe is true justice…men, who in history books, are simply labeled heroes:

_An individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for the law_

Men, like Reverend King, Jr. Is true vigilantism ever contemptuous of the law? Does it scorn justice? Are we ready to assign these labels to cultural icons such as Indira Ghandi, Thomas Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln?

Yet before I am criticized about their distance and irrelevance to the current situation in Gotham City, let me mention another name: Selina Kyle, now infamous for the murder of Stan Shillings who Kyle accused of allegedly raping her sister. This alleged rape, and subsequent murder, occurred within the bounds of Gotham City not six years ago. Once arrested, Miss Kyle pled guilty to Murder with no appeals or reduction in sentence for cooperation with the investigation. She elected instead to voluntarily fulfill the full term of the law. As a citizen of Gotham who has watched hundreds of greater criminals take refuge in Arkham, disappear after posting bail, or admit guilt only after their sentence has been whittled to a laughing excuse for true justice, I propose that Miss Kyle's unblinking acceptance of the consequences of her actions shows not contempt but "the utmost respect for the law."

Recently I have heard talk of a day when Gotham City will no longer 'need a Batman.' Many have voiced their opinions here in this very newspaper, and I shudder to think of their naivety. A society which never questions itself, that does not seek to keep its government in check, that does not demand a perfect equality of justice and purity from corruption of all its citizens is not a better nor safer society. Such a society is never a society in no _need _of men like Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., but rather one in which he simply never could have existed…an alternate reality in which their was no Monroe Doctrine, no accountability nor comraderie, an alternate reality in which the United States of America did not intervene in World War II…a reality which could have continued only under the glory of the Fuhrer's Third Reich, or vanished into the inescapable oblivion of Mutually Assured Destruction.

With the excitement over the new Dent Administration, I can only hope, as a citizen of Gotham City, that this corruption will be curtailed, and it will no longer be necessary for the Batman to intervene in our affairs. I wish instead that the soul of this city would be such that her heroes could have faces, that our vigilantes could be our citizens, our politicians, our governors…I wish every Gothamite would take up this duty, this collective mantle, so one man would never have to.

But finally, I hope that Gotham would realize that Vigilantism isn't faith in a man. It is adherence to an idea. We can never allow ourselves to forget that our loyalty to a man must be dependant on his loyalty to a cause. We cannot grow so comfortable with the thought of a Vigilante, whether a District Attorney, a Presidential administration, or even a democratic government that we let ourselves grow lazy. For good or ill, Pandora's Box is open. It is up to all of us-myself included-to do what we can for Gotham with the rights and responsibilities with which we have been endowed. We then, must all be watchers of the watchmen. Independent thinking and personal accountability-the very essence of not only Vigilantism but also of Democracy itself- are two ideas that our society can never afford to retire.

Thomas Payne, Gotham City Resident

1776 Independence Lane

* * *

**9:00 EST**

**The Fountainhead**

_Building groaning aching falling plaster chunks crumbling glass shattering joists screaming floor collapsing move your feet keep on running pray to God you've on a lower floor a lower floor please God let me be on a lower floor light streaming window run down the hall the light growing stronger dodge that beam the light the light you have to make it to the light-!

* * *

_

_**Two hours previously…**_

_**6:53 EST**_

_**Gotham United Methodist**_

Coughing. Groaning. Sickly cries and sobs. Bruce felt a shiver crawling up his back. So many people, so many dead. There wasn't room for them all, sitting or sprawled in hallways, nurses picking their way through carefully with water and antiseptic…closing the eyes of the dead.

_No room not enough supplies goddamnit we need more beds!_

A terrible, nightmarish hell of Bethlehem. No room in the inn…

…the Inn. _Placing a check in that simpering attendant's hand, arrogant smile, people laughing at the absurdity…I just bought this hotel…_

Fox had been right. The Batman couldn't help….but billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne _could. _

A pro-offered Styrofoam cup of water, a blood-pressure cuff. He focused blearily in the dim lighting: _Amy Lawless, RN._

"Thanks," he mumbled weakly. She tried to rise, but his large hand had gripped her arm. "Where am I?"

"Methodist." She whispered emotionlessly, downcast eyes not meeting his. Around them, those plaster-coated, eerie demons spread in terrible heaps of limbs and heads. Bruce shuddered, looking at his own chalk-white arm. He had to look like death itself.

He jerked his head to the sprawling mess littering the corridor. "You need more rooms, right?" Hesitantly those dark blue eyes found his, their color so welcome in this spectrumless hell. She nodded once, barely perceptible.

"I think I can help."

* * *

**7:12 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

Phone ringing. Work to be done. Nichelle, Micheala…his own family might be wondering if he was safe-

"I might have to take that," Lucius informed the technician.

"Right," Bradley responded, packing more ice around the injured leg as the elderly gentleman reached for the phone with a grimace and a cry.

"Let me do that, man." Eugene muttered, stretching for the small cellular. He glanced at the screen, a wave of relief washing over him.

Fox sensed the pause, sweating even more- "Who is it?"

Eugene tossed him the phone. Lucius caught it in one weathered hand, relief flooding his anxious heart. There, on that small, luminescent screen, two words that calmed his fears: BRUCE WAYNE.

* * *

**7:23 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"How's it coming?" Lawless grunted.

Milton shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. We're finding more survivors…but that doesn't mean we're saving lives. Just got off with Bradley. Wayne's at Methodist, said it was a shithole. People dying in the halls, not enough staff or beds…"

Cold fury eating through him. "What's taking the National Guard so fucking long?" Goddamnit, those people deserved more! Gotham deserved more than that!

Fred Milton laughed bitterly. "You remember Katrina? This is as fast as FEMA works, man. And as for the National Guard…well…what if they're wasting their time doing something else?"

"Anti-terrorism." Aaron growled. More worried about the idea of national security than the growing toll of human lives.

"Yeah," Milton said lowly. "Or looking for _us."

* * *

_

**7:31 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Exodus.

"I want all those NOT needing immediate critical care to be transported immediately! If they can walk, they're walking, if not, take 'em in wheelchairs! All ancillary staff, non-surgical and non-critical care aids and nurses will be accompanying them!"

Chaos. Moving beds. People staggering to their feet, nurses and aids taking frantic vitals, patients staggering into buses…

Amy Lawless shivered, remembering another hospital only a year ago, some sense of impending dread warning her to run, to get out, _to get away the whole place was going to blow-!_

But this was a year later. The Joker was safely in Arkham. And these patients were going to safety.

"I need help," Wayne said.

She looked up at him tiredly. "You and everyone else here."

"I need to find someone." Her eyes grew even more teary. But the billionaire persisted.

"Her name's Rach-Rebecca. Rebecca James."

Grey, faceless crowd, grasping hands sobs whispers _Chavez Aaron Ian no more heartbeats-_

She let out a strangled sob. "I'm sorry Mr. Wayne." She motioned the chaos around them. "I'm- I'm a little busy."

* * *

**7:37 EST**

**S****isters of Mercy Convent**

Footsteps. Sister Teresa Margaret raised her head, then quickly bowed it again. "Father Benedict."

The Priest surveyed her with emotionless eyes. "You are weary, my daughter. Go. Rest."

She nodded in acquiescence, rising slowly and stiffly from her vigil. The Father watched her go, unblinkingly. When the last shadow of her gown passed the corner, he turned away.

Not two minutes later, Salvatore Meroni exited the corridor, feet slapping noisily against the cold stone floor. Tired as he was, there was a spring in his step.

* * *

**7:38**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"_Please, no! I can't go I need to call-!" _The sixteen year old struggled against the nurses' hands. _"I have to tell my mom I'm okay please let me just call-!"_

Bruce ran to the teenager's side, his very presence causing her tormenters to release their grip. "Here." He handed the phone to the tiny girl. "Make it quick."

Sara McCloud let out a sob, falling into his chest. Bruce patted her back in frustration, still scanning the gathering crowd for James' hair. No sign of her

* * *

**7:39 EST**

**Eagle Harvest Estates**

Phone ringing. Ringing. _Phone. Sara. God_.

The answering machine picked up, and Travis and Cindy McCloud's hearts leapt together as they jumped for the phone. Because that voice-_that voice-!_ Belonged to no one but their daughter.

"Mom, it's me I'm fine I'm at Methodist-"

_"SARA!"_

"Mom I love you so much I can't talk long, I'm, I'm they're taking us to Skylight-"

But Cindy was sobbing so hard she couldn't talk. Travis ripped the phone from her grip, pulling her face into his chest, weeping himself, assuring his only daughter it would be alright, to get on the bus, that no matter what happened they would meet her there-

* * *

**7:40 EST**

**The Fountainhead**

The building was trembling. Her radio was dead. Not four hours ago Old National had collapsed in a plume of dust and smoke…

Shit. She kicked at the steel doors again in ferocity, swinging the butt of her Beretta into the hinges but no luck, the stock broke off with the force, fingers breaking-

"HIJO DE PUTA!" Montoya shrieked, falling heavily to her knees, the bloodied hand pressed into her mouth. Where the fuck was Crispus when you needed him? Her back against the cold steel body stiff and cold shivering in the bursts of wind, wanting nothing better than to see his dark face, to have a good cry-

No. She wasn't going down like this. She jumped up again as the building let out another low moan, feet finding that unforgiving steel again and again and again, each time shouting _abren, abren, abren-!

* * *

_

**7:42 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

The door banged open, Lawless's gun up at the ready, stock swinging down, smack of metal on bone, Milton and Gordon running the intruder slammed against the wall, weapon wrest from his hand-

"What the fuck is going on!" A very familiar voice shouted. Fred Milton spun the unwitting victim around, letting out a laugh and giving Crispus Allen the queenmother of all bearhugs.

"Jesus, man. It's damn good to see you-"

"Yeah," The black mountain of a man growled, rubbing his head, glaring at a sheepish looking Lawless. "Wish I could say the same."

* * *

**7:43 EST**

**The Fountainhead**

"ABREN!" buckling steel, warping hinges she wrenched at the gapping doors, struggling to open them further around the tight-bound lock. Hands bloodied, feet bruised shoulder useless Renee Montoya shoved under the still locked doorway like a dog under a chain link fence-

Panting in pain and fear, eyes tearing, she leaned against the wall in sagging despair. Each echo of the buiding's death throes was magnified a thousand times, every groaning joist, every buckling frame…

Montoya shuddered. She was alone. 120 storeys above the ground. And save for the small pool of sunlight trickling under the battered doors…the stairwell was completely dark.

* * *

**7:50 EST **

**Gotham United Methodist**

Still wandering the halls searching praying hoping to see that winning smile, a brilliant splash of red-There-! Short. Bald. Hawaiian print polo-Paul. Bruce shoved through the crowded ER bay, ignoring protests of staff, pushing past sobbing victims and spinning the bald man around by his shoulders.

"James!" Bruce shouted. "Where's James!"

* * *

**7:51 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"Got five more-northeast corner." Bradley related over the comm.. Pinpointing them now-damn. Got exact locations on four of 'em. Send a Cardia team to search for the other-"

Lucius ran tired fingers through his coarse grey hair. Five more. Out of thousands. Crowded hospitals, dwindling supplies…thank God Nichelle and Micheala were okay. That his daughter-that he-wasn't one of the hundreds of thousands left wondering where loved ones were, if they were among the living or dead.

"Three. Wayne Boulevard and Dent." Lucius related, returning his mind to his task. He could worry later, grieve later…each and every one of those weak, short-lived signals was someone else's Nichelle, their Micheala. Fox held onto the image of their upturned, smiling faces, cherry popsicle running down dark cheeks, tongues stained brilliant red, white balloons floating in the breeze-

Kids were the hope for the future. Every parent's love. Worst fear. Weakest point. No greater panic. You didn't touch kids. Whatever else, you left kids out of it, Fox shuddered. Whoever had done this had planned it well…

* * *

**7:53 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Fragile. Delicate. Pale. Bruce took the small hand in his.

Alive. More than he could have hoped for, digging frantically under that marble slab, dragging the body out, broken and limp like a doll, limbs dangling lifelessly-

…He called her Rachel_. Twice_ now. Why?

James stirred, blinked groggily, focusing in the dim light. She let out a gasp and tried to sit up.

"Lay back down." Bruce said gently.

But she resisted. Wiped her green eyes groggily, pulled the oxygen out of her nose and sat up higher.

"Jesus, Beck, you had me scared for a minute." Paul interrupted, giving the reporter a tight hug. "I thought I'd lost you-" She leaned against him only briefly, not folding into his fatherly embrace. The cameraman held her at an arm's length, worry etched deeper into his wrinkled countenance.

"Beck?"

She struggled against them to turn, to stand, throwing back the tangle of sheets-

"Stay down," Bruce said. "James-"

"Who's covering?" She asked wildly. "Who's covering?"

"Shaw." Paul soothed. "You're fine-"

"Got to get up-have to help-" She pleaded, struggling weakly against them, they lifted her back in the bed, thrashing feebly, crying out-

"You're fine!" Paul cried desperately, holding her shaking shoulders. "You've done enough, Beck, you've done _enough-"_

Slow, shuddering sigh. Hot tears leaking down. She lay still, sobbing, the middle-aged man cradling her awkwardly, red curls pressed against his chest-

Something wet. Bruce raised a hand, staring in confusion at the tear quivering on his fingertip. It beaded then ran, a single streak of pale pink flesh etched through the plaster coating his hands, Paul's steady voice still whispering over and over again: _you've done enough, you've done enough…._

He trembled and turned away.

* * *

**8:01 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"…Dad woke up from open heart surgery. Tell him hey man. Asks me if it's true there's been a terrorist attack in Gotham City. Yeah, dad, I say. Whole hell of a lot of people got killed. And he says, what the fuck are you still doing here. I say good question. Took the quickest flight I could back from Metropolis." Crispus Allen shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Folks, I am jet lagged, over caffeinated, and ready to go."

Gordon grimaced. "We're glad to have you." But the smile didn't reach his eyes. Allen had no idea what he had just walked into. Should have stayed in Metropolis with his parents, his wife and children…

He didn't know what would come of this. But he made that decision himself. Crispus Allen had walked in blind. Didn't know that he might never see his family again. And that thought brought images of Barb and BB, of Jimmy to his mind. And no matter the distractions, the worry, the fear, the chaos…those images would not go away.

* * *

**8:02 EST**

**The Fountainhead**

_Twelve steps to a flight. Keep your hand on the right wall. Two paces to a landing. Twelve more steps. Keep your hand on that wall. Two more paces. Twelve more steps. Twelve steps to a flight, two flights to a storey, one hundred and twenty storeys but was the roof higher? Try to conjure a mental image, helicopter approach blinding spray whipping wind yelling in a headset nearly swept into neighboring buildings can't remember don't remember go twelve steps to a flight two flights to a storey how many storeys…fight the nightmares nothing is here in the dark nothing behind you nothing chasing you the building is falling collapsing don't think about it don't think about it oh god twin towers legacy don't think about it chick you'll make it just keep going nothing behind you don't run don't fall don't trip keep your hand on that right wall open yawning pit in the darkness left banister open to a well of deeper blackness a gaping maw animal's dying screams terrible wailing earth hungry and waiting to eat don't trip don't fall keep your hand on that fucking wall-

* * *

_

**8:11 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"…where is everyone?" Crispus asked.

The gathered officers exchanged hesitant glances. Allen's heart sank in the silence. Nearly twenty years of street experience. He knew that pause. Knew that look. Knew it, had used it, seen people deny it, try to stop him, to silence him, if only it wasn't said it wasn't done-

Disbelief, denial-

Lawless took his arm and began to speak.

"Crispus…when the Legacy fell-when she fell more than two thirds of all of Gotham's, of all of _us_ were there. _MCU_-"

Catch your breath. Don't cry. Don't choke. Wait. Don't speak. Take a breath. "Damn." Allen finally whispered, faces flashing before his eyes, fellow officers, co-workers, _friends_.

…_Montoya_. Bad, cold feeling deep in your gut. Don't puke. Be a man. Eyes finally registering the stark, terrible truth before him:

Lawless. Detective Aaron Lawless.

…Alone.

"They were there, weren't they," the words tumbling in a sinking whisper. "Paltron and Pint-size and Montoya. They were there."

* * *

**8:15 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"_As you can see, Victims of the Legacy Attack are now being shuttled from major emergency centers into Skylight for minor injuries. The hotel is currently updating their website with names of survivors on the property, and urging family members to check this website , again that's , with no spaces or underscores-"_

The screen was still tuned to Channel 18, all eyes upturned, hoping to hear good news, see family members, learn who was behind the attacks-

The line wove through the lobby and halls, those able to be dismissed to Skylight sitting or standing, some laying down, awaiting their turn to ride a GCPSC bus to their next location and the promise of rest.

"That was…that was a good thing you did." James said softly, gesturing with her head to the screen.

"Checking out that nurse's ass?" Bruce asked with pretend confusion.

Rebecca shook her head, curls falling across her face perhaps the tiniest hint of a smile stretching across thin lips. She raised her green eyes to his-

Sudden jostling down the corridor, shouts of _MOVEgetoutoftheway! _Feet run over by the careening gurney a blonde paramedic running ahead of the cart clearing the hall-

Shoved against the wall, pull James back stretcher hurtling through one frantic glimpse of a tiny girl, dark hair plastered against her china face, bright shock of blood splattered under her hairline, slanted eyes closed tightly in pain-

Agony. He felt it before he heard it, sensed it instinctively, that hand tightening to a bruising claw that chest expanding, breasts pressing against him, the deep, long inhale…then his eardrums shattering losing his grip Beck tearing away from his grasp crying _GraciegracieohgodGracie-!

* * *

_

**8:23 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Hands on Lawless' shoulders, gripping tightly. Desperate, fearing to hear the answer to the question now burning on his tongue, tearing up his insides-

"She's alright."

Crispus blinked. "W-what?"

"She's alright," the auburn-haired man repeated. "Renee. She's fine."

Sudden release, knees buckling, shaking now.

"…adrenaline letdown." Lawless was saying. "You should sit, drink some water-"

* * *

**8:24 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

**Patient Care Unit**

More footsteps more fury more ricochets of rubber bullets eating into the crowd more cries _killhimkillhimhedeservestodieforthishe'llpayforthis-! _

Even stories above and floors away, the presence of the growing mob could no longer be ignored.

…interesting. Yes. Quite interesting. People were so unordinary, so unoriginal…

So pre_dict_able.

A year ago all these idiots, these bleeding heart liberals with no brains or balls had protested against the death penalty, had fought to label him insane…and yet here they were, de-_man_-ding he be held accountable…Twelve months later. Twelve _short _months later. And what had changed?

_You see their morals, their cod-duh, is a baaad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble._

Nothing had changed. Things had just gotten…_personal._

Like Harvey. Harveyharveyharveydent. And that Gordon. James Gordon. Not quite as fun to _say-_

But the possibilities for other fun were endless. Ya see, Gordon was uh, _married._ Gordon had kiddos. Gordon would do anything to protect them…even lie. Cheat. Perhaps kill.

No. Not kill. Not yet. The Commissioner was just as self-righteous as the Bat but with none of the style.

Fools. They hadn't won anything. No, lost everything. Too blind to know they handed him Gotham's little soul, all wrapped up in a neat little bundle called L-I-E-S. Proved him wrong, did they? Proved him wrong with false hopes , with morals, with their fake little cod-duh of honor?

No, oh no. The Joker tittered to himself. _….it's like I told ya all along, boys. You'll drop it. Drop it at the first sign of trouble. I wanted to see what you would do…and ya didn't disappoint…_

The Joker yawned idly, sinking lower into the shadows surrounding the alcove of the door until only his gleaming yellow eyes were left.

He was getting ready. Waiting.

Waiting for the Batman's grand appearance. He could wait like this all day… he could wait _forever_. Wait _as long as it took…

* * *

_

**8:49 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"Got it." Mark panted, releasing the pressure from the drill as blood and CSF began oozing gently down that porcelain face. Amy Lawless' hands trembled as she suctioned it away, caffeine, lack of sleep, hormones playing tricks on her mind-

Raised voices, people arguing outside the Surgery Doors-

"Here, give me that," Mark said kindly, taking the suction from her slender hands, fingers brushing hers through two layers of latex-free, sterile gloves, dark eyes meeting her own-"Take care of that for me?"

Amy Lawless shuddered. She didn't look back. Ripped the gloves from her hands, washed vigorously, and threw open the doors to the scrub room.

"Ma'am, you need to stand back!" The paramedic was shouting, arms around the taller woman's waist, hauling her away from the doors. "_You!"_ She shouted to the RN. "Help me out here will you!"

"She knows that girl!" A giant was shouting. "She knows that little girl is it too much to ask you just _let her through-!"_

"ENOUGH!"

Shock. Silence. The raw force of her emotions startling the entire ward into astonished pause.

The RN trembled, panting for breath, throat torn and dry, the only noises her ragged breathing. All eyes on her, she straightened slowly and slicked sweaty hair from her eyes before speaking.

"What are you doing?" She asked listlessly, all emotion spent.

"Please," the red-head whispered from Hanson's relaxing arms. "Please, I know her-"

That man-the one who helped with Skylight—Bruce Wayne--joined the pleading. "She's just a little girl, just let her through-"

"Only family-" Amy's heart broke. It was horrible, like imagining BB or James Jr. and being unable to help, unable to hold their hands, tell them mommy and daddy would be there soon-

The red-haired woman began to weep, collapsing into Hanson's arms-

"You!" Jennifer rounded on Bruce. "Take her." She placed Beck in his arms none too gently, gave him a grim look and a "I'm sorry, but I've still got work to do" by means of dismissal.

She turned in the elevator doorway, gurney in tow. "Thanks, Lawless." She said. Amy nodded wearily in return, and with slow and sinking finality, the doors clenched shut.

* * *

**8:52 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"No, warn them to steer clear. The whole plaza's unsafe, structurally unsound-but Jesus, the Southwest side especially-"

Bradley stopped, only for a second. A fault line? Was it just possible-? "Fox and I had at least a hundred different cell phone signals clustered around the Fountainhead-I don't have exact locations, batteries dying, perhaps family members not calling back but we can send a team with the Cardia…no, don't send EMS. You need FD. That place is a mess-the whole building could collapse at any minute now-"

He sent Fox a meaningful glance. _Hurry._ When the Fountainhead collapsed…their imaging would be lost. They would be left with nothing but the last coordinates of victims, bodies…structural damage…

"_Who_ wants to speak with _who?_ He's back? No shit." Bradley exclaimed, Allen's arrival finally announced over the comm.. "Right-"

But it wasn't right. Not right at all. A sudden dread before he could even think to panic, to curse-

_Renee.

* * *

_

**8:54 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

The woman was still crying. The RN turned wearily, tired tears of her own beginning to form.

"Please," Beck whispered, "Please-"

_Baby's heart not beating Aaron God knows where her own son still in daycare_…She shook her head. "Only family." One hand on that goddamned door, that pleading voice cutting deeper, drawing her back-

"Her name is Gracie. Gracie Tanaka-!" The red-head shouted. "Trish was her _aunt_. All her family was there. All of them. Yuki even flew in from _Tokyo_…" That giant tightened his grip, pulled her closer-

One tear. That's all she could shed. This red-headed stranger was pouring her heart out to her and one tear was all she could spare-

"Please. _Please_." The woman whispered. "I'm the closest thing to family she's got left-"-

* * *

**8:56 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"Come on _comeoncome_on! Come on, Renee, _pick up the fucking phone-!_" The officer was shouting, hitting send again and again and again, calling over the radio, large thumbs sending a clumsy text-

* * *

**8:57 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"_What the fuck you mean she's still on top the Fountainhead-_!" Crispus Allen shouted into the Comm. "_Are you fucking _stupid_? What the hell is wrong with you-you don't just abandon a woman on top a fucking _building_-!"_

Lawless and Gordon were struggling to hold Allen back, to silence him, Fred Milton sending an emergency signal out to the six Medevac choppers-

"Emergency flyby, I repeat, we need an emergency flyby of the Fountainhead. Requesting visual of the roof, do you copy?"

"Roger that, GCPD. This is Methodist Medevac, approaching from the north, approximate time to visual thirty seconds-"

* * *

**8:59 EST**

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Eugene," Fox said again. "Eugene-"

The young man was pre-occupied, pacing, swearing and tearing his hair-"I can't raise her on the fucking radio, her cell's not working either-!

"Eugene," Fox called, more insistently.

"Just wait, alright! Just wait fifteen seconds-" Because fifteen seconds could make a difference, would make her safe-

But Fox knew the truth. The screens said differently. They couldn't land a helicopter on the roof, not with the way the foundations were crumbling-

* * *

**FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel**

_GCPD, this is Methodist Medevac. We have visual of target, I repeat, visual of target, over._

_Methodist, this is GCPD. We are looking for a missing officer, I repeat, looking for a missing officer, over. _

_GCPD, this is Methodist. Negative for signs of life. I repeat, negative for signs of life-_

_Check again, Methodist! Officer was on western corner-

* * *

_

**9:00 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

A sudden surge, a spike of brilliant, billowing white, imploding into a dazzling pinprick…then nothing. All monitors blank. Officer Eugene Bradley blinked, not understanding-

Then the machine gave a gentle whine, sputtered, and died. All screens blank, a terrible, inky, lifeless black.

A wrinkled hand on his arm. And he knew. The building had fallen. The fourth transmitter broadcasting it's signal faithfully until the moment of impact, rent by the force of the blow, shattered to dust-

…He had sent a friend to her death.

* * *

**FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel**

_OH, SHIT-Oh God what the Hell-! GCPD, t-target has…fallen… _

_Methodist, this is GCPD can you clarify, I repeat clarify that last broadcast-_

_GCPD…target has…fallen. I repeat, target has fallen…the whole fucking building…Oh God…resuming medical transit flight to United Methodist. Resuming flight…God. Methodist out.

* * *

_

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"_Resuming flight to United Methodist. Resuming flight…God. Methodist out." _That mechanical, unfeeling voice echoing in the silence, another cloud of dust rising on the horizon, blotting out the hope of the rising sun, another sacrifice on the alter of the gods of tyranny and war, a senseless oblivion, a day of reckoning and judgment-

"I'LL KILL YOU I'LL KILL YOU I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU-!"

Milton jumping back Ramirez choking on sobs Allen going beserk ripping Comm set from the wall hurling shattering breaking useless jumble of metal and plastic-

"BRING HER BACK, BRADLEY, YOU FUCKING BRING HER BACK-!"

* * *

**9:01**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

Silence. Blank screens. Nothing but black, empty space, and the horrible, shrinking memory of that sudden burst of white, Allen's voice echoing like her dying screams-

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

Bruce Wayne watched emotionlessly as Cameron Shaw announced the collapse of the Fountainhead. Some wept, others only stared, like himself, too numbed, too hurt to care. But none knew what had rested on the roof of that building. None knew what this city had lost, that the only reason they were here was a small box the size of a microwave illegally transmitting signals to a small band of exhausted, but determined men.

Bruce shuddered, stood, and walked away from the television to peer in again on James and Gracie.

Head swathed in bandages, face swollen nearly beyond recognition, many cuts stained orange with iodine. Six-year old Gracie Tanaka. The only reason he was living, only reason he wasn't one of the hundreds now trapped under the Legacy's wrath…

Gracie Tanaka. Perhaps the last victim located with the technology that was now out of their grasp. Gracie Tanaka. Struggling for breath, for life. Condition critical. Perhaps dying. She wouldn't be the first, he noted.

A ray of sunlight broke through the ominous cloud of smoke and dust, lighting the hall, etching a glare on the glass. He turned away.

...She wouldn't be the last.

* * *

**9: 21 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Montoya. Dead.

Staticky voices cried over the radio from Milton's discarded headset.

…Montoya. _Dead._

Crispus Allen's heart-wrenching cries echoed through the room, down the hall, the hall where not eighteen hours before Montoya herself lay screaming.

_SHE'S GONE SHE'S GONE SHE'S FUCKING GONE-!_

Anna Ramirez was weeping into Gordon's shoulder. Fred Milton had buried his face in his hands.

It was Lawless who stepped silently forward.

_Hold him. Cry with him. It won't be okay, nothing can make it right, it will never change it will always be this way. But he isn't alone. Don't you fucking dare let him believe he's alone-_

_Montoya. Paltron…the Kid. Be strong. Weep. You are a man. A father. This is what you do. What you can do. You hold him while he screams-

* * *

_

**9:22 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

The rumbling had stopped the shaking had stopped _dear God make it stopohGodplease-!_

More choking, dust rising debris falling, falling, sharp, stinging pain it burns it burns hot viscous liquid pouring from your belly press it press it some instinct tells you press _itpressitnowouryou'lldie-_

But you can't. Can't let go. Can't lose that hand, can't lose that hand and be alone--_all alone-!

* * *

_

**9:23 EST**

**Sisters of Mercy Convent**

Go. Rest.

But there was no rest, only worry, wonder, fear and doubt. Maggie Kyle trembled on her small pallet, tears trickling from her open eyes. Her brother. Dead. No,, no it couldn't be-!

Not Jimmy. Not her Brother. Her hero. He had come back for her, eight years ago he had come back for her, run back into that hellish inferno of crumbling stone and flame, came to find her in the Girl's Dormitories, carried her to safety-

She had lived. Lived when so many others had died…

And again, years later, coming to the hospital after that terrible night, his solidarity, it wasn't your fault Maggie it wasn't your fault, not blaming her, not pressing her, no anger when she didn't testify against her tormenter, no disappointment when she choose a life behind these walls, not even _Selina_ had been so understanding-

He wasn't dead. Couldn't be dead. He was helping. Yes-that was it. Still there, rescuing strangers, not because it was his job but because it was who he was, what he did-

_Flamesscreamssmokerisingchokingblindinggroundunderherfeetfallingdownhewasturningaway-_

_Grip tightening fighting struggling "Jimmy, no! Don't go back in there ohpleaseohGod don't leave me-!" _

"_They're still in there Maggie, they're all still in there I've got to help them, I have to save him-"_

"_JIMMY!" Her own voice small and weak, coughing coughing, his white face smudged with smoke, one last glance of those gleaming dark eyes-_

But she knew the truth now. It was this heroism that nearly killed him. Would someday kill him. Two hours later, they had pulled him and the dead boy from the stairwell, huddled together in their final moments, skin a grisly black, hair burnt, clothes melted-

A strangled, suffocating sob. _Lord let him live, God please spare him whatever you do please spare him-!

* * *

_

**9:40 EST **

**Gotham United Methodist**

The door opened, and Bruce jumped to his feet. Amy Lawless' haggard face was inscrutable, blue eyes dull, dark hair falling lankly about her face-

"Gracie-?" He choked, finding suddenly he didn't want to hear the answer.

Amy blinked, put a hand on his arm. "Sit down."

Crushing, awful feeling…Tears again, that strange, hot wetness on his face, tears now after all this time, he hadn't been able to shed them for Rachel, not for his goddamned childhood friend, the one love of his life-

More tears. Trembling lips. Hands to his face. Rachel. Dead. Gone. His fault. All his fucking fault he should never have let her get involved in this he brought this on her a kid a kid she was just a kid a kid like Rachel finding that goddamned arrowhead-

And that wound, that wound was a raw and gaping as it was the first day, the first hour, that terrible second when it was Dent's face and not hers he saw, the feel of the rough suit collar in his hands, dragging him to safety, knowing the cost, the price she would pay-

And again that question, that numbing question, that doubt: was he responsible? Did he bring this upon her? Upon all of them? All the faceless thousands, parents who would never hold children, innocent kids, kids like Gracie-?

It was Alfred's voice. Alfred's mild, irreproaching voice in the silence:

…_Rachel believed in what you stood for. What we stand for. Gotham needs you._

Gotham needs you. All that hope. All those lives. They were only wasted, only died in vain if nothing came from them. He had a chance. Could make a difference. Could turn their tragedy into a cause worth sacrificing for-

Bruce blinked, and wiped his eyes.

"Mr. Wayne?" The RN called again. Sighing deeply, he raised his tired face to hers.

* * *

**9:47 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

"That was a good thing you did." Jim Gordon's voice was whispered, faint. The Commissioner followed soon after, trundling heavily down the limestone stairs, blinking in the sickly sunlight.

Lawless acknowledged his presence with a grunt, casting his gaze again towards the still smoking epicenter. "Know how he feels."

"You should go home." The Commissioner said. "Get out of this mess. You've done enough. Get some rest-"

From his seat on the staircase Lawless shook his head, a strange light in his hazel eyes. "No. I'm not leaving."

"—see your family." Jim smiled sadly. "Please." He couldn't ask them to travel this path with him, couldn't ask them to do what he had done…The machine was off. But it's evidences were undeniable. The hundreds, perhaps thousands of victims who had been located were inexplicable. The Red Cross, Fire Department, the goddamned EMS personnel had all communicated with them, too busy, too distracted to ask questions…

But questions would be asked. Answers would be sought. And when they came, they would come for him and him alone. He would make sure of that.

"Jim," Lawless said lowly, "We're all in this together. All of us. _We_ made this decision. We're not letting you take the fall." But someone had to. Someone had to make the Batman's sacrifice…

Gordon nodded, sinking down next to the haggard Detective. They were silent awhile, the only sounds the distant sirens, the slow pattering of litter up the abandoned sidewalk.

"She was a good woman," The Commissioner stated. "A good cop. I, I didn't know much about Connolly-"

Lawless bit his lips, shaking his head again, staring down at his weathered hands. "He was a just a Kid, Jim. Just a _Kid. _Had his whole goddamned life ahead of him…" He ran fingers through his dusty auburn hair, struggling for the words to say.

"He was like a, a, a son, you know? And, and I think that's what hurts the worst. I don't want to go home. Don't want to call Ames, see my _family_…because it's like it'll never be whole again…God." The Detective said, wiping his eyes. "We were remodeling the house together…just, just redoing the back bathroom and bedroom. But I never told him it was for _him_. Didn't like him living in the Narrows…shitty neighborhood, dangerous-especially for a Kid living alone-"

Gordon was silent. For a moment, the echoes of the Detective's last word were the only sound that hung in the dusty air.

"Hell." Lawless continued. "And that's when it just grabs you by the balls. I knew him for less than a year, Jim. Less than a fucking year but I worked with _her_ for _six_-"

Guilt. It was the worse feeling in the world. You couldn't live with it, couldn't live with it because something died when you felt it, something died inside you that would never live again-

* * *

**10:01 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"We drained the hematoma. It was epidural, but it was bleeding fast," the RN whispered.

* * *

**10:02 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

Silence. Sirens in the distance. The smell of smoke in the air.

Minutes passed. The Detective looked up and met Jim's eyes,, a lifeless smile on his tired face, nodding one last time at the horror in the distance, made no less stark, no less bearable by the sun's strong rays.

The Commissioner offered a shaking hand, and Lawless grasped it wearily. "Sometimes, Arnie, life is sad."

Jim couldn't return the smile. _The Chocolate War. About as damn hopeless as it ever gets… _He hauled the Detective to his feet, meant to complete the line-

-but never got the chance.

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

"She's okay," Bruce repeated stupidly, "She's, she's fine…"

."She's awake if you want to go talk to her-"

He nodded, blinking, not understanding. "She's, she's fine." He said yet again.

"Her vitals are fine. Platelet counts a little low, we'd get her blood if we had any but it just means she might have a longer recovery time without it, we've got an IV running, her color's already back, infection's our only main concern right now-"

"She's alive," the billionaire said disbelieving. "She's…_she's alive-!"

* * *

_

**10:03 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

"Sometimes…life is shit" Both men spun, reaching for their forgotten guns, facing that voice, that voice, _it couldn't be-!_

"Hello boys," The speaker said, wicked grin growing wider and wider. "_Why so serious?"

* * *

_

**10:04 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

The halls felt empty. Dead. Perhaps it was the memory of the haunting faces, the stillness of the air, soft hum of electricity, gentle beeps and whirrings of telemetry…_I can endure my own despair, but not another's hope…_

Amy Lawless stared in at the sleeping girl, the happiness of the woman, Wayne's stricken tears…At least one story had ended well. One of perhaps thousands that wouldn't. Yet perhaps it hadn't ended well at all. The girl's family was dead. Gone. Even a city as far away as Tokyo would not go unaffected by this tragedy-

She turned away, sunlight streaming in through the floor length windows, casting a shadow behind her that was doubt and dark. Her despair, like that hideous cloud of smoke and dust, blotting out the sun-

But that's when she felt it. That tiny, leaping jolt of sick and giddiness all at once, deep down in her belly, like an elevator stopping-

* * *

**Rachel K. Dawes Muninciple Building**

**(GCPD Dual Headquarters)**

…_Montoya._

Detective Renee Montoya. Alive and in the flesh.

She laughed tiredly at her own joke, teeth flashing white against her dark skin, securing a stray strand of coarse hair behind her right ear. "Lawless, put the gun down before you hurt someone, yeah?" She said, placing a bloodied hand on his shaking arm. "But really, don't quote that book. _It's _full of shit." her tone grew darker as she rubbed her aching thighs. "And if you really want shit, try running down a hundred and twenty flights of stairs...Madre de Dios… where's that bastard Eugene? I owe him a good, swift kick in the _cojones_-"

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

Charts, papers, a pen scattering unnoticed to the floor, heart leaping, lips parting, hands pressed tightly against her unswollen skin-

* * *

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

"RENEE-!"

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

And she cried. Cried so fucking hard she was laughing, slender fingers pressed over her mouth, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks doors opening people staring she didn't care laughed louder cried harder _alivealivethebabywasalive-!

* * *

_

**10:09 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Bradley sobbing over the Comm Montoya's slight frame still quashed in Allen's tight embrace, Anna Ramirez was laughing, laughing, even Milton had tears streaming down his face-

It was a joyful reunion. Unexpected. Unlocked for. _Unhoped_ for…

_Jesus Christ Renee I thought you were dead I thought you were fucking dead-_

Aaron Lawless smiled grimly, smoke and ash still blotting the morning sun, staining the window a cheerless grey, a world full of despair. Yet behind him friends were rejoicing, the sound of laughter echoing loudly down the long hallway, shattering the silence-

_Laughingcryinglaughinglaughing oh God Aaron if you're there if you're alive I'll keep us together whatever it takes whatever it costs her baby their baby was alive-!_

But hope, Lawless reflected, was a matter of perspective. Of whether the glass was half-empty, or half-full. Whether night was the end, or beginning of the day…

…if whether doubt was the opposite, or absence of faith.

_Don'tgiveupyoucan'tgiveupbebravethey'llfindyouhavetoletgohavetopressstopthebleeding let go let go still out there out there in the darkness still there still there they'll come they'll come for you she said she'd come back no matter what I'll come back for you-_

It all depended on perspective. Attitude. With what lens a man viewed the world…

_Worth it worth it it will all be worth it Gracie, I promise you someday you'll grow up and I'll make it a better world a world you'll be able to say it was a sacrifice you're proud your family was able to make-_

Montoya, Ramirez, Gordon, Allen and Milton were all laughing too loudly, too engrossed in conversation to hear the CRACK as the dust-coated window shattered, the tinkering of raining glass, then-

_Sunlight. _

Pure, unadulterated sunlight came streaming through the jagged window pane, blinding and brilliant, arms outstretched face uplifted sudden brightness searing the very tears from his eyes with it's beauty.

No more doubt. No more despair. The truth was neither merciful nor terrible. It was objective, unbiased fact…

_Frantically looking the chaos ambulances busses everywhere Sara Sara where are you running running through the crowd their daughter their daughter Sara alive unharmed-!_

…and it would come when it would come. No sooner.

Mustering courage with a final glance, Aaron Lawless turned his back to the rising sun, feet treading unheard over crackling glass, returning to the Tracking Room, embracing his friends, cherishing their smiles, relishing in the certainty and security that these lives, these, were safe, and _that_ was enough to keep him going-

Because you had to keep your focus right. Had to keep your eye on what was important. Couldn't lose sight of what you had. Couldn't let wrong thinking cloud your mind. You couldn't give into despair, to that black and bitter desire to just let go, give in. Because some things in life were certain.

Faith was _meant_ to be rewarded. Love was _made _to be requited…

…Because regardless of the cost, once you got down to it, Pandora's Box-like a window-was always intended to be opened.


	15. Prometheus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

**AN: Thanks so much to all who have reviewed!

* * *

****August 26****th**

**21:20 EST**

**103****rd**** Street**

Driving. The car is lulling my aching body to sleep. Sleep. I need it-it beckons me like death, Angel's small, expectant hand mere inches from my own-

Intersection. The slow acceleration stirs me. I open my eyes.

The street is filled with twisted, jumbled mounds of ruined vehicles. A plastic cup and lid come bumping up the sidewalk, an eerie, ominous rattle on the silent street.

The hum of the electric engine. Lawless' breath. My own heart beats. These are the only sounds in Gotham. Draped in dark and doubt, the Sleepless City is finally slumbering.

* * *

**21:33 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Head lulling, joints aching, knee burning…neither sleeping or waking, walking the verge between dream and death. The car is humming, my heart beating, Lawless drawing deep, measured breaths.

A sudden roaring, a flash of light-!

_I wake._

_All is white, a sheenless fog. _

_Dust. Glass. Car exploding a falling building people screaming crashing concrete belching flame burning blackened blood chaoschaos the world is chaos somewhere a boy is screaming…_

_I wake. Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. With agonizing slowness he is etched from nothing… Pale, grey flesh. Thin, dark brows. The straight, perfect line of his nose, the soft, clean angle of his lips and jaw…_

_I blink, and this face-his face!-again before min, flitting on the shadows of my fleeting consciousness as it has for 13 lonely years. I fear to move, to hope, to breathe lest I wake. Heart breaking, beating, throbbing yet these eyes have never before been so clear…_

_Angel. I am Tantalus, beyond belief, beyond hope, reaching a hesitant, trembling hand to his evanescent face, shaking fingertips drawing closer and closer-_

Dust. Glass. Sirens shouting vomit of ash reek of smoke and burning flesh hell hell this must be hell yet the backs of my falling fingers come softly to rest, trailing lightly against warm, living flesh-

…_calm. Still. I wake. Angel lies silent beside me, my hand on his perfect face. _

Cold.

I wake. My hand has fallen not against Angel's face but onto the stark chill of a bullet proof windowpane. The car has passed. The night is dark. My heart is empty. The eyes I see are my own, staring back at me through the silhouette of the Sleepless City, spiraling into the night sky as cold and cruel as it had 13 years ago, riding with Gordon.

_Gotham._

A cold, unfitting tomb for any Angel.

* * *

**21:41 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

I wake. The warm, familiar hum of the cruiser has disappeared. Voices. Footsteps. I blink groggily and sit up.

A National Guard check point. Ten men block the road, two more in the backs of jeeps, rifles raised and ready. Slowly they surround the car, rapping on the driver's side window. "We'll need to see some ID, officer."

"Detective Aaron Lawless," Lawless grunts, flipping his wallet.

Bright white light in my face. The Uniform stoops, face unintelligible in the blinding glare of the flashlight. "And the girl?"

"That's Lt. Paltron. MCU division."

"We'll need to see some ID." Wearily I search my pockets, holding out my battered wallet. He snatches it from my trembling hand, staring long and hard to reconcile my lifeless face with my photo ID. He does not find it easy.

"Satisfied?" Lawless asks, swiftly taking back our badges. No answer. They are on their radios-probably calling us in, confirming again what they already know-minutes pass, the greenish glow of the dash changing from 9:49 to 9:50.

Lawless grows anxious and restless beside me, muttering to himself and glancing repeatedly out his window.

I shut my eyes again, and try to sleep.

* * *

**21:54 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

I wake. Jarred from sleep by angry shouts "…in need of medical attention, goddamnit! I don't care what the fuck you've got going on just let me take her through!"

Numbed. Sleeping. He seems upset, unusually upset…but consciousness fades in and out, rational thought tumbling slowly away from me.

The door slams. Lawless rips his seat belt from the frame, buckling it with ferocity. _"_Life is shit_._" He snarls, glancing in the review mirror with particular vehemence. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Wearily I nod, turning over in the seat as the engine begins to thrum. My eyes flit open, and the world is white, hazy, unfocused…a pale, poignant face flashes before mine: _Angel._ I bolt up in my seat with wrenching agony, the pain in my leg nothing, nothing compared to the ache in my heart-

I suck in my breath, lungs turning to lead. I suffocate on my grief.

Lawless' impatience, restlessness, growing anger. All explained. Etched over Gotham's skyline is an advertisement for _Stop the Violence_, still in place. Those bold words in stark, strong white against the dark backdrop of an image that over the summer has become an icon, an image now both as famous and unbearable as that little girl after 9/11, eyes upraised, face bathed in tears, an American flag clutched firmly in one fragile fist-

Four months ago, Chris Holden captioned it Stop the Violence. The Wayne Legacy Foundation seized rights to it for their promotional advertisement. Every citizen of Gotham knows it as the Crying Cop. But that photo-_that face!-_were not staged. No artificial lighting no make up no acting coach…nothing but raw, unscripted pain.

…I would know. I was there.

_Chinatown. Xiao Wang. _

_Connolly is brave. Braver than any would have thought. He stands stricken, eyes wide in horror, blanching in pain. He could walk away, walk away in front of us all and even Eugene and Fred would never dare judge him…He could collapse, wretch, run to the strength and protection that is Lawless and no one would think any less of him…but he does not. Slowly, wearily he stumbles forward. He takes gloves, takes the black, unfeeling vinyl, helps lift and arrange each fragile, broken body as gently as though he may accidentally wake the child from her slumber._

_Trembling fingers zip shut the last black bag. Weak as he is, he is strong. Any boy can weep, but it takes courage to be both a man and to cry. And of the twenty-odd Officers, Medics, Forensic specialists and interpreters crowded into this dank, humid house-Lawless and myself included- he is the only one with that strength of heart. _

_Begrudging respect grows thick in my throat._

_Lawless is tense beside me. Fred and Eugene have turned away. That small, sad train of gurneys leaves, whirring lights flickering in through the open door frame, the sound of pouring water all around, rain beating down on the roof, overflowing the gutters, lapping higher and higher against the porch._

_Yet it is impossible to say which flows faster, the freezing rain or the boy's hot tears. _

_Connolly stands in the doorframe, tiny and trembling, gloved hands still shaking and smeared with blood. He didn't need to see this, Lawless had said. Called him Kid. Treated him like a kid. He may still-but he will never _confuse_ him for one again. Freezing cold, dripping wet, barely out of boyhood Jimmy Connolly has now glanced into Gotham's despairing heart of darkness, the sickening severity of her sins, her hidden horror…and has walked away scarred, but vulnerable._

_I resent him. I-like so many of Gotham's public service workers-have become both calloused and numb…no sorrow, no tears, no suffering. Only anger. _

"_Kid-" Lawless takes a step forward. Connolly turns towards us, and for a sudden, shrinking second I am held fast in his gaze, Lawless and Eugene frozen beside me. That awful gaze is not accusatory-perhaps it would be bearable if it was. He stares at us like a dying doe, liquid eyes wide in pain, blinking weakly in the bright glare of headlights, unable to comprehend. Stricken. Silent. No anger no curses no screams. Only a pressing, pleading question._

_Why?_

_Rain continues to pound. Silence surrounds us. Time crashes to a halt._

_A sudden spattering retch that shrinking second explodes Connolly collapses to the slickened porch heaving sobbing ripping the bloodied latex from his child's hands crawls to the edge gasping retching water pouring down scrubbing hands face ruined uniform flesh red raw in freezing rain Lawless surges forward Eugene shouts just leave him alone for God's sake just let him be alone-! _

_But he is not alone. Not even in the solace and silence of the midnight downpour. EMS. Neighbors. CSI. The Press. All ring the yellow-tape perimeter, pressing to get a better view. Lawless calls his name, and he raises his wet and wretched head, brows knit, lips parted, dripping face pale in shock and cold-_

_Lightning flashes. And in that moment, the photographer snaps his picture. _

I am Paul. I am blinded. My Angel stood weeping not feet from me, but I did not see. It is the steep price of a veteran's victory: to live and not feel, to look and not see…

Yet I know now it is that picture, that night, my own goddamned callousness that marked him for death. His innocent, boyish face, like Trisha Tanaka's bubbly voice, could never go unmissed-

I too, am responsible for his death. The blood staining my hands not only that of his killer's but his as well. That realization is both black and bitter, stalking me though the silence. Lawless drives on, face set and stern. For the first time in six goddamned years I find his expression inscrutable. I feel a sudden chill: am I so far gone, so fallen from grace, that I can no longer read him? With a shudder I remember the bank, that grey curtain fallen again between my world and this…I feel uncertain. Afraid.

"You still pissed at me?" I whisper. But silence is my only answer.

Still we drive. Light pole after light pole, block after empty block…

"No," He finally sighs. "You did what you thought was necessary-treated him like a man- did what I couldn't do." He grimaces bitterly. "This isn't your fault." The weight of guilt rests heavily on him-I have borne it myself long enough to know.

He casts a glance at me, hazel eyes hesitant, probing. Gordon's words echo eerily in the silence: _Connolly's death, I should've known… _and suddenly I remember as though an age ago Lawless' weeping: _He was, he was my partner, you know? I couldn't-I tried…I had, I had to tell Amy that Jimmy…that, that he was dead. _

I do not find hope in another's despair. Yet I am not as alone as I have allowed myself to think. Angel's agonized eyes still reflect in the review mirror, staring hauntingly at us from beyond the grave. I blanch, but cannot look away. My beautiful, perfect little boy.

Gone.

We round the corner. The billboard disappears. Again he is taken from me.

Yet so is my fear. For now I am bound by my injuries and illness…but the road to recovery is the first steps of my path to vengeance. And when I am free the streets will run red with the reek of blood of all those responsible and the criminals and whores and dirty politicians will raise their hands crying spare us-!

…and I will whisper _no._

_I am Prometheus_, I tell the empty, midnight sky. _Behold me, I am wronged._


	16. Compatior

**_Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: I took a leaf out of Orson Scott Card's 'book' and have placed this fic in the not-too-distant future to avoid having to deal with current global problems. This gap also gives me more freedom with my adult characters, as their adolescence would be similar to mine, and we might share many of the same experiences.

* * *

**

**August 26th**

**22:08 EST**

**1776 Lexington Lane**

**(Lawless Residence)**

The night is cold.

She shivers with my tingling fever, limbs aching, joints burning. Lawless opens the door of the squad car, and the seat belt slivers between my sweating breasts. He hoists me from the seat, arms awkwardly under my shoulders, around my body, struggling to support my weight.

I am too tired to be angry. I can only muse emotionlessly that it has been 19 years since a man has touched me so.

The porch light floods the driveway with a sickly shimmer, and I limp alongside Lawless, my right leg numb beneath me. He fumbles with the keys, and for one moment I hear the lulling song of crickets and frogs, oblivious both to our troubles and existence…then the key clicks sharply in the lock, and I am ushered inside.

* * *

**22:10 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

"We'll head to the back bathroom-" Lawless grunts, still supporting my weight, our footsteps echoing loudly against the walnut floorboards. "That way you won't have to climb stairs-"

The house is dark, his breathing loud, his armpit strangely sweaty and burning against my shivering skin. There is a loud snap of crumpling plastic and I stumble suddenly, falling against him with a curse and a sharp cry, my leg buckling under me.

"Fuck it!" I hiss, looking behind me to the spinning remnants of a tiny toy car, shattered plastic pieces skittering noiselessly.

Childhood. I blink, mesmerized, staring at the scattered shards. It has been many, many years since I forgot I had ever been a child. I feel now as though I have always been wretched, broken…

…No. I have not always been this way. Once, _once_, I was whole.

_Dark eyes heavy with slumber, a gummy yawn that tiny hand against my breasts stretches once then lays still under his smooth cheek fingered fistful of my T-shirt long lashes cascading down chest rising, falling, rising falling Angel sleeps and a strange thrill shoots through me, a deep, indescribable, terrible twinge of pain, my skin-my soul-longs, yearns, aches for this touch. I know this is what it means to be a _woman_, a _mother_, to be whole…to hold a child against my chest, sleeping face laid as sweetly as though suckling-_

"Sorry." A gravelly voice mumbles, and my mind and weary eyes are jerked back to the present, the sleeping boy wrest from me _grasping fingers reachingtearingripping my skin-_

I feel like vomiting. Lawless. Lawless' house. Angel, _dead_. It has been nearly thirty years since I watched the world stop turning,, nineteen since my husband left me, thirteen since my trial…and one week, one, short _week_ since Angel's death-

. "Ian loves those things-" He rights me, his hands suddenly heavy and uncomfortable against my back-

…_Jon._

I wrest away, shuddering. "I'm fucking fine."

But I am not. Lawless narrows his eyes in the darkness, offering his arm for support, but he doesn't place it around my waist. With guarded eyes I reach out, and his guiding strength raises me easily from the floor.

"Careful, there's more." He says, pointing out the dark shapes lurking in the shadows. "See?"

We continue to walk, and in my pain and illness, fighting for breath, shaking my aching head against shades and specters of delirium and delusion I do not stop to wonder that even then, even then he does not reach out to turn on the light.

* * *

**22:33 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

I wake. Lawless' house. Lawless' bathroom. Cold marble countertop. Gingerly I swallow 1500 mg of Tylenol, more water, more amoxicillin.

Beside me shining metal instruments lay, bright sheen against the dull stone. With them are Ice. Tweezers. Flashlight. Hydrogen Peroxide. Rubber Tubing. Rags. Ingredients for the perfect in home surgery.

…I don't believe in hospitals.

Lawless whistles at the ear thermometer. It still reads 102.3. He tells me it has come down nearly two degress in the last fifteen minutes. I ask how long I have slept. He says maybe twenty-enough time to dig through abandoned bookshelves for long lost texts-

A heavy tome lays open on the floor, the diagram of a naked knee joint both freakish and foreboding.

He hands me a rag and I wet it in the sink, bathing my sweating face and neck. My fever must come down, he says, and with that I am stripped of my shirt, packs of ice laid in my axilla, nothing but a thin, sweat-stained beater between my still burning skin and the chilled indoor air.

"You're taking 850 mg amoxicillin…Doc diagnose you with pneumonia?" Lawless asks.

I shake my head no. "I went to a pharmacist." My voice is scratchy and hoarse, as grating as his.

His eyes narrow. "And they filled it without a script?"

Wearily I toss him my badge. "Good enough?"

He catches it with one hand, shaking his head in consternation. "Paltron, that's illegal as hell-"

I raise one eyebrow and stare him down_. So's practicing without a license, Lawless. _He smiles wryly. "Alright, so you haven't seen a doc." He sighs. "Let's start at the beginning…You have any history of chronic upper respiratory tract infections?"

For a panicked moment I am silent.

"Fuck yeah."

"You ever been exposed-hell, obviously." He growls, the memory of the Legacy bombing only a week old. "But any _previous_ or prolonged exposures to hazardous materials? Heavy construction zones, explosives, asbestos-"

"Yeah," I whisper, not looking in his eyes, "Hell yeah."

_Spinning sequins whirl and flash in a myriad of lights and mirrors slippered shoes slide across a waxen stage, splashing in a fountain still clutching my autograph of the NYC Ballet Company the night before squinting eyes upwards a plane drones suddenly veers over the skyline I wave, wave to the people aboard not knowing I will remember that day forever locked in my memory remember, remember the eleventh of September-_

"When?" He probes. I tell him almost thirty years ago. And it is his turn to be silent.

He raises one hand to his face, teeth yanking nervously on his thumbnail. "You were in NYC when it happened." He whispers.

"Right there. Right fucking there." I groan. And suddenly it is important, pressing, my mind exhausted and spent. "Saw the first plane go in….And I waved. I fucking _waved_. Told my mom it was flying too low-

_Sun blinding, ponytail whipping in the wind squinting up my mother laughs, laughs, teeth white on pink lipstick tells me to smile for the picture, but I point, point again, she laughs, tells me it's not going to hit, Gwen, it's a trick of the light it's not going to, not going to, oh my God, ohmygodohmyfuckingGod-!_

"-Hell." I close my eyes, and shudder, hot, prickling tears threatening to spill from my clenched lids. I saw it. Fucking saw it. Twice now. Once as a child and again as an adult…And both times, both times there had to have been something more I could have done…a way to stop, prevent, do more…But I will not cry. Not again. I am not a child. I am a soldier. A mother. _A killer_-

Lawless rips the nail off with his teeth, spitting it on the floor. "Eighth grade algebra." He shakes his head bitterly. "They come over the intercom, say there's been a terrorist attack in NYC…they might be shuttin' school down, and all I could feel was _relief._ Had a test that day, you know?" His breath comes ragged, as choked as my own. "Then they turn on the TV's…Dan Rather, estimating about thirty-thousand, thirty fucking _thousand_ people died…" Then a tear, a single, streaking tear drips down his face. "Fuck." He pants. "Guess now we know how the adults felt, huh?" He wipes his eyes, and I am silent.

"I still feel like shit about that day." He whispers.

I sniff loudly, wipe my running nose against my bare flesh and blink back tears. Words. Only words. No comfort, no changes…but I know now I am not the only one to have grown up in the Valley of the Shadow of terror and guilt. _I_ _still feel like shit about that day_, he whispered. "You and me both." I choke.

* * *

**22:41 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

We are silent. Hurting. Lawless sighs, running a hand through his now greying hair. Hair that less than a week ago was a crisp, autumn auburn. No longer. He clears his throat, takes his now-ragged nails from his face, wipes his eyes. He is compassion. Yet strength. He forces through. "So you've got…post 9/11 syndrome. They screen you for lung cancer?"

I nod. "Chest x-rays. Once a year." My physical fitness has saved me, I am sure. My life has been neither gentle nor easy, and perhaps my immune system knows this as well. But it has only and always been a matter of time. I do not sicken easily…nor recover.

Lawless turns his head, fingering the stethoscope. "They clear?"

Again I nod.

"You mind if I take a listen?" I shake my head no, and lean back into the coolness of the mirror, waves of chills ebbing from the ice beneath my armpits. He bends over me, one large hand against my shoulder, the other holding the stethoscope, snaking under my shirt. I look up, once, his eyes boring into mine. I look away. Much has passed between us…but there is more-much more-that he will ask me. And I am feverish. Wounded. Weak. I have not the heart to speak of it now…

"Paltron," he begins, "when, when the Legacy fell-"

_screaming screaming people screaming smoke belching blinding dust-_

He stops, hesitant. "When she fell, did you, were you-"

_Low whine jarring explosion Connolly screaming stay down stay down-! pulse of people low rumbling like thunder peer out through bloodsoaked hair-_

He runs a hand again through his hair. "I found you. Both of you. Under that goddamned firetruck.-"

_Crumbling plaster roaring waves asphalt cracked boy's eyes wide in terror run run you have to run shell shocked helpless hoist him by the shoulders never leave a man behind can't leave him behind-_

"You…you carried him there, didn't you?"

_Angel_. My eyes are closed, fighting guilt and grief. Yet still he waits for an answer. I shudder, shaking voice a wavering whisper. "Knew it was the only chance we had."

_Running running bare feet pavement burning asphalt melted siren still whirring engine thrumming dust dust blinding dust that boy is screaming clutching me ground shaking creaking debris spinning glass cement steel getdowngetdown! hold him closer surround his head holdonholdon rumbling thunder wave rolling closer closer heart lungs throat bursting in fear-_

He knows now. What it cost. The dread, panic, desire to _runrunawaygetthefuckaway leave anythingeverything behind-!_

"You kept a clear head. And it saved your life. Both of your lives…You're a good woman, Paltron. Good cop. " Lawless grunts. "Damn good cop. Anyone ever tell you that?"

_You're a killer, Paltron. An unusual killer. Youwereacopweweresupposedtobeabletotrustyou!_

_Not just a cop. A damn good one. Maybe the best..._

Thirteen years. I have been called many things: _molester, murderer, child-fucking whore_….yet none of these insults is as bitter or biting as his stinging words. I heave a lifeless laugh…perhaps a sob. "Lot of fucking good it did." I hiss miserably, and those dammed up tears slide burning down my fevered face. I saved him, yes. Conquered my childhood fear…

I am the mother of Moses, I mull with remorse, who I kept and loved, for he was a beautiful boy…but Gotham is no Nile. She is colder. Crueler. Possessing neither pity nor mercy. No Pharaoh's daughter but a cunning crocodile, and she will consume any child she finds left in the bulrushes.

* * *

**22:46 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

The bell of the stethoscope sends shivers against my burning skin. I breathe in, out, in, out, each exaggerated inhalation costing me a spell of coughing, ribs aching with every heave. Lawless frowns deeply, eyes shut in concentration, his hands again uncomfortable against my skin. But finally he finishes, draws the bell away and removes the rubber cups from his ears.

"Not gonna fucking lie to you, it's pretty bad, Paltron. When'd you start the antibiotics?"

I think back to Stalton. Starbucks. Green Street…already it seems an age ago. "This morning," I croak.

He sighs heavily, scratching absently at the shadow of stubble growing around his chin. "You've got an upper respiratory infection, bronchitis, inflammation of your axillary, subclavicular and sternal lymph nodes…prognosis ain't good, Paltron. You need to be admitted-"

"To do fucking what?" I snort. "Get pumped full of antibiotics and electrolytes?" I shake my head bitterly. "I can do that shit right here."

But the doctor in him has been thoroughly roused. "Paltron, we were all goddamned immune-compromised with _Stop the Violence_…and you were right there in the middle of the Legacy. For twenty four hours. You've been exposed to this shit before and you're lucky you're not already dead from this thing, okay?"

I shake my head no, teeth barred. "I don't do hospitals."

"Paltron-"

"Fuck, no." I state evenly.

"I'm taking you to Methodist-"

"-and they won't admit me if I don't sign the paperwork." I return, holding my head high, bloodshot, achy eyes seared by the light. I am not a child, have not been a child since that terrible day. I will not be treated like one. I am firm. I will not be moved.

He sighs, deflating, hands toying with the stethoscope. "I forgot. It's like arguing with at brick wall. Wall always wins…look, Paltron, I'm a doctor-"

"And I'm your boss." I shrug around the ice.

"No, you're not." Lawless counters. "Gordon put you on medical leave."

"And the state licensure board put _you_ on permanent leave."

He shakes his head tiredly. "Wall one, me, _nothing._"He sits awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, eyes closed, one hand scratching his chin, contemplating. Finally he speaks. "I won't take you now, but I'm pumping you full of cortical steroids and I'm going to keep checking your vitals. If your lung sounds get any worse I'm taking you s_traight to Methodist_, you hear?"

There is a tone there, hidden in the gravelly texture of his harsh voice. Concern? Worry? Fear? It is light, jesting…but pleading. In his life he has lost a wife, a career, and now a partner. I do not think he can stand to lose another. I have heard him use this tone before. It speaks of his loss. Guilt. Betrayal.

_IA. Six years ago. A bronze badge is again in my hand. Hanging on the wall is a larger than life size portrait of an elderly black man, uniform decorated with countless medals. Several recruits study its caption disinterestedly. But I do not need to. I know that man: Sergeant Arthur Jamison. His berretta lies in a holster on my left hip. Etched into the frame are thin, stark words: All in the line of duty. I grip that badge tighter…_

_The sharp clicking of high heels. A downcast Latina, like death, walks between me and my mentor, eclipsing my view…_

"_Guinevere." _

_A man with auburn hair calls my name. He does so, three times. It is not until the fourth that I understand that name belongs to me. I have neither spoken nor heard it said since Gordon, Dent, Surillo. My trial. Even my fucking husband called me Paltron…_

"_Here." I say, standing and crossing the hall. He looks taken aback, but recovers quickly. I surprise him. At five eleven, I stand not three inches shorter…perhaps outweigh him. My memories of Underworld are not three months old, my muscles hard and bulky. His handshake is firm but weak-the mark of a white-collar man…_

_He introduces himself. "Lawless," he says. "Aaron Lawless." I grunt and nod my head in response. _

_He peruses me expectantly. Waiting for me to ask: _a cop named Lawless? You've got to be shitting me._ I do not. "And I um, call you…Gwen-?" I can see humor and uncertainty swimming in his eyes. A cop named Lawless. Partnered with a goddamned dyke named Guinevere…_

"_Paltron." I correct him tersely. "Just Paltron." _

_Our first assignment: parking meters in front of city hall. Get to know you sort of shit. Useless. Pointless. Yet I must play along. We walk down the steps together. He is unlike Jim. Tall, Impressive. Neither mild nor meek. His voice is rough and gravelly. Some slight scarring on his windpipe-motor vehicle wreck, glass cutting the vocal cords? It is both hoarse and grating. "Look, I realize we hardly know each other but we're gonna be working together for some time…"_

_Wordlessly I slap a ticket on the windshield of a Mercedes Benz. Bastard's been here for three hours in a fifteen minute zone…_

"_So I think it's only fair I tell you about me, upfront. We're both in WATCHDOG, and I-I thought it'd just be best to get this over with-"_

_He struggles to talk and fill out a ticket simultaneously. To him it is a task. To my hands it is mindless, routine. If offers me no distraction. No relief. I must hear this tale, and hear it in full._

"_My wife left me. Started drinking more and more, you know?" Yes, Lawless, I think, unblinkingly. I know. More than you guess, I fucking know. And I don't want to have this conversation. Not fucking now, not fucking ever. _

_But I have no choice. Reciprocate or not, he will insist I know it all. Perhaps, I muse bitterly, he is like Gordon, after all…_

_Nervous gesture. Running fingers through his short-cropped hair. "Got behind the wheel when I was piss-assed drunk. Ran a red-light. T-boned a Honda. They were young, you know? In their twenties. Two kids in the backseat." He shakes his head, the ghost of tears in his hazel eyes "John and Emily Howe. They were teachers. Pronounced dead at the scene. Marissa. Five years old. The seat-belt nearly, nearly decapitated her…." His voice breaks, and yet this man, this stranger continues, hands shaking, unable to complete the ticket. "they, they um, lifelined the baby to Methodist…held on for a few hours… And I, I wasn't even wearing a seatbelt and I fucking walked-"_

_He sniffs, hands shaking he tucks the ticket beneath the wipers. "What, what are you here for?"_

_The sun is hot. His gaze unrelenting. You want to know about me, Lawless? I think darkly, you really want to know? And my answer falls black and burning from my lips. "Child rape and quadruple homicide." I state, unblinking. "Now can we skip the shit and get the damn job done?"_

I have been harsh. Cruel. In my bitterness I have become unfeeling. This twice now I have mocked his pain…I will not do so again. The accident is now eight years old, but there are some scars that never heal…and I know it intimately. Lawless' friendship will be taken from me soon enough, but for now I will cherish it.

Stalton's list, my revenge, the Joker…They will come. For now I must wait. I must rest. I must be ready...and I will relish the friendships that I must renounce.

* * *

**22:52 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Seconds pass. Lawless surveys me shrewdly in the silence.

"Deal." I finally whisper.

He grunts in acquiescence. "Alright, then." He rises from his improvised perch, and we shake on it, my arm limp and lifeless, no longer strong, palm now cold and clammy.

Sudden gratitude. It stabs my heart. But I am not-have never been-good with words. I stretch out a trembling hand to his arm. "Lawless," I breathe.

His eyes fall down to that hand, and he turns. "What?" There is something in his eyes…arm-hair prickling eerily under my chilled fingers, perhaps the chill of my touch against his skin. I remove my hand.

I bite my lips, eyes downcast. "Thank you." I whisper.

"Don't thank me yet." He says. "I haven't operated on anyone in eight years, Paltron…and all my patients in the OR were under general anesthesia…and the ones that weren't were already _dead_." His tone is gentle, but tinged with regret. I ask him if he has missed it…

He tells me _Hell yeah. Every damn day._

…but he says he may be a little rusty.

I tell him I can handle pain.

"Yeah, if by _handle_ you mean ignore."Lawless grimaces, dipping the metal instruments into alcohol. He sighs, and holds my gaze, hazel eyes intent and probing. "You _sure_ you want to do this?"

_Fuck yeah_, my mind answers, but the shadow of a smile creases my lips. "Please tell me this isn't your version of informed consent."

We try to laugh. But can't.

"You're lucky my kid's still in pull-ups at night," He mumbles lowly, sliding his hands into white rubber gloves. "Else I wouldn't have the equipment."

"Yeah, Lawless, like _I_ have any fucking STD's." I whisper scathingly, the first time I have acknowledged aloud the scars spreading down my pelvis and legs. Nineteen years. Yet it isn't funny. Will never be. Warizistan took everything from me.

…Everything but Angel.

I shudder and jerk my head against tears, choking and rasping on the rising fumes of alcohol, shaking fingers ripping open my right pant-leg. The denim is crusted with congealed blood, but the wound, though ugly, has mercifully dried-

Lawless squints, uncertain, that miscarried joke lying dead between us. He clears his throat. "Alright, first thing, I'm going to have to make a diagnosis…bilateral ROM, ligament strength, try to figure out what's going on."

"Right." I say, eyes falling shut.

_We've got to ice that knee_, he tells me, voice muffled and fading. _You've got about a five minute window for joint injuries before muscles start guarding. We'll have to trick them. Ice it. Then we'll do a Lockman test…_

I nod tiredly, body aching. "You're the doctor…"

He sighs. "And you're not listening."

"Ice. Five minutes muscle guarding…lockman test." I mumble back to him, weary head lolling against the mirror.

"Yeah, and that's all fancy-ass doctor speak for I need you to take off your _pants_."

My eyes snap open, neck lashing up, heart racing.

I look away. "Can't…can't you just work around it?" I ask sharply.

"I need an open working field. I have to palpate, manipulate the joints. Paltron, I have to see what I'm doing-"

Silence. I suck in my breath to argue but am suddenly choking, choking like yesterday, fat drops of phlegm spattering down my chest, leaning over to hack slavering strings to the floor below-

He places a strong hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Dark swimming spots, my vision tunneling, head hot and heavy with fever and rushing blood-

And suddenly it is finished. He sits me up again as I wipe my mouth moaning in disgust. I can't raise my eyes. Can't look at him. I don't care shit about modesty. It's pity I can't stand. Not from _Gordon_, not from _Wayne_…not from _anyone._

But especially not from _him._

_January. Five years ago. Gothem City Ferry Service. On duty with Lawless. He is shouting my name, clawing for my hand, fingers stretching, desperate for mine-_

_But the cold shock of water is nothing-I have my burning hatred to keep me warm. Struggling through the choppy waves, ice freezing on my face, Nabokov's dead weight dragging me down I have one thought and one thought only: Not like this, Motherfucker. You don't deserve to die like this-!_

_In transit to Arkham Asylum, the bastard jumped ship half way across the channel. The water is well over thirty feet deep, well under thirty degrees. Cuffed and bound, he had no chance of escaping. He knew it, too, staring into Lawless' eyes, sinister smile etched on his face as he stepped back-_

"_PALTRON!" Lawless is screaming. "PALTRON JUST DROP HIM-!"_

_His flailing hand. Our fingers brush. Another wave. I go under again. _

_Surface. Gasping. Choking now. Lawless' hand. Again our fingers brush…and clasp-!The Ferry's crew joins him grabs me hands hemming, pressing from every angle tearing clothes, hair, armpits hoisting me and my monstrous companion up, over, through the railing-_

"_Jesus Christ, Paltron what the hell were you thinking you could've died, you could've drowned-!" _

_I am sopping wet, hair frozen to my paling face, clothing bitter and chafing against my unfeeling skin. I don't have time to hear him. Stubble against my face I press my mouth again to Nabokov's purple lips-_

_Perhaps the only woman to have ever done so willingly._

_The only to have done so desperately. _

"_NO! Youcan'tdieyoucan'tdienotlikethisyou'renotgettingoffthateasybreatheyoumotherfuckingbastardBREATHE!"_

_A voice is crying, shouting from this dark tunnel swearing cursing-a woman's voice, rising and rising-_

"_You'renotgettingoffthateasyyoucocksuckernowBREATHEyou'renotdeaduntilIsayyou'redeadBREATHE!"_

_I am freezing, shivering, pumping my blue fingers against the Bastard's hideous, hairy chest, ribs breaking, crunching I count to thirty, shouldersachingIpresspresspress-! _

"_Get an AED!" Lawless' voice far and fading, I fight hypothermia barely able to breathe into the fucker's open, disgusting mouth-_

_That woman is screaming again screaming. Strong arms pull me back I fight I struggle I scream I have to resuscitate Navokov he can't die this easy he doesn't deserve to die like this-!_

_A warm wave of air hits me, thawing drops of water pouring from my frozen hair. I am wrapped in an emergency blanket, shaking so bad I cannot control it, that voice stops its screaming, I cannot speak lips too numb jaws chattering violently-_

_Nabokov lies pale and still on the deck Lawless carries me I struggle and fight desperately, no more than a pathetic squirm. Locker room shower water boiling hot crying out fingers scrabble against the metal boiling, boiling flesh burning ohgodohfuckohChrist it's too hot too hot that voice is screaming again-_

"_Paltron, Paltron look at me!" Hands slap my face, hazel eyes before mine. Lawless. And suddenly I know that crying woman is me, my hands clenched around the tap, the hot water has never been on I am freezing to death, skin a strange and deathly white-_

_Hands on my skin ripping frozen clothing off screaming protesting no please no fuckyoufuckyounoletgodon'tfuckingtouchme! nails scraping hands trembling can't move can't fight jaws chattering Lawless' voice shouting I'mnotgoingtohurtyouPaltrondamnitI'mnotgoingtohurtyou-!"_

…_Silence. _

_A slow, shuddering sigh. Burning water on bare skin. The faucet pours, drain gurgles. Scars exposed I am a monster. "Jesus Christ," Lawless whispers. _

_Freezing. Naked. And thoroughly wretched. Wordlessly he covers me with the blanket. Wiry fingers tenacious on his wrist teeth barred I find his eyes, hold them fast, dare fucking dare him to __question,__ to __pity__-_

But looking into those eyes again tonight I know now I was too unfeeling. Too untrusting. Too goddamned pissed at his entire gender to discern the difference. I lower my head, force my aching arms to move and slip the denim down my long legs, the counter cool under my burning thighs, understanding tonight-only tonight-that it was compassion, compassion in his eyes that I mistook for pity.

….but I should have known, known long ago, that he is too good, too strong a man to indulge in such a cheap, misshapen excuse for love.


	17. Medicus

**_Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust. _**

**AN: Sorry, it's a short one! **

* * *

**August 26****th**

**23:01 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Ice. My shoulders are shaking, jaw quivering, gooseflesh raised down my arms and legs, my nipples taut. I tuck my shivering arms close to my chest, but my fever has robbed my warmth. "It's fucking cold." I croak.

"It's called ice, Paltron. Frozen water, remember?" He grins tiredly, but reaches for a crimson bath towel, draping it across my shoulders, affording me what little modesty I have left.

I watch, distantly, as he presses his gloved fingers into the flesh of my knee…but feel nothing. "You feel anything?"

I shake my head no, then close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. It hits with a gentle thump, my airway open and clear. Alcohol-tainted oxygen makes its way into my lungs, expanding them fully. It feels so goddamned good to breathe-

Then Lawless' voice again. Hazy. Fading. I blink stupidly. I couldn't have heard that right…

"You like cherries?"

"W-what?" I groan.

He shakes his head. "Wrong question. Got any allergies to red food coloring?"

_What the hell?_ I roll my head and eye him suspiciously. "No…"

He senses the question and mumbles an answer. "Amy buys these damn popsicles by the gross and the boys just love 'em. But they hate cherries, so now I've got a deep freeze full of nothing but goddamned red popsicles. Been trying to get rid of 'em all summer-"

…Too tired. Too weak. _The boys_. I assume he is speaking only of Ian. I will soon learn how wrong I am…

"Popsicles," I state. The word tastes funny, unformed on my lips, as though repeating for the first time a foreign phrase. Popsicles. It is a word I have not spoken in years…

"Point being, you can have red…or red. Take your pick." Lawless says wryly. "What'll it be?"

The cogs finally fall into place. "What the fuck, I'm feeling adventurous…red."

"Good girl," He chuckles. There is a sudden crinkling of shrink wrapped plastic, the rising heat of the running tap, and the heavy, syrupy scent of cherries, melting ice swirling in the drain like dripping blood. He tells me to open my mouth. I comply. The sugared, splintered popsicle stick is placed between my teeth.

My heart starts to pound. A lifetime of violence has taught me the anticipation and dread of pain is worse than the injury itself. And I am not immune. "This is gonna hurt." I whisper.

Lawless snorts. "You think?"

* * *

**23:06 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

I shudder as he takes hold of my leg again, a strange tickling sensation where his rubbered hands hit chilled flesh, the eerie pressure of touch against numbed skin….his fingers run down the scars, finding the base of each tendon.

Gracilis. Semi-tendonous. Semi-membranous. Quads…

"You've had this knee partially replaced," his voice comes, far and distant."When?"

"Eighteen…

"You were eighteen, or eighteen years ago?" He asks, as I inhale sharply, his fingers now probing around that meaty wound. "Ago." I pant.

"Wayne Legacy foundation did it for you, didn't they?"

Goddamned Stop the Violence. A week to the day. I nod. He asks which doc. I tell him. "Daluga? I was under him for residency. He's a good man. Good surgeon." Silence again. He is concentrating. His hands move to my left leg, passive ROM. He grunts, satisfied, and I shudder as he moves back to my right knee-

A sharp, screeching cry. I fall back, panting, teeth grinding into splintering wood. It hurt as fucking bad as this morning-

Lawless looks sickened. "Sorry, Paltron." He is pale, bloodless. I know that look, have worn it well…

_Angel shivers in my arms., tiny fingers curled tightly into my blood-smeared shirt. _

"_It's okay Angel, it's okay-" I place him down and he cries out, clinging to me I kiss his hair, his face, the tip of that perfect, mole-skin nose. I tear away, run to the bedroom, kitchen, scissors and sewing thread clenched in my hands…_

I don't know how I do it. Some terrible monster within me rises, rises, fights against my instinct to hold him, cuddle him….but I love him. Love him terribly. And that maternal monster does what I cannot. He screams as I wrest him down, We sob as one as I rip those flailing hands away, tiny nails biting deep in my flesh, wrench those pants off the bright shock of blood scarlet against the paleness of his skin I am vomiting, sobbing he shrieks in wordless betrayal dark eyes pouring tears but there is a gaping tear still bleeding-

_The needle pierces his quivering flesh. He shrieks, not knowing, not understanding…_

_My Angel. Beautiful baby boy. He is screaming, screaming, and it is I who cause his pain…I die. And yet I continue. Must continue. One clumsy, tear-blinded stitch at a time._

"You alright?" Lawless asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He is pale, sickly looking in the bright lights. And for the first time I realize that this surgery-like the Legacy-will be no easier for him to bear than I…

"Yeah." I gasp, tears pouring heedlessly, sugary splinters piercing my teeth and gums. "Yeah."

"I'msorryAngelI'msorryI'msofuckingsorry-" I lay on the bathmat next to Angel, aching to hold him, comfort him…fearing to touch him lest he not understand. My chest is burning, heart throbbing as his eyes pierce me, accuse me, whimpering in shrill, wordless betrayal…

_I am sobbing. Sobbing in shame and bereavement there is blood on my hands my face my clothes I killed killed four men kidnapped a child what have I done what have I doneOhGodwhathaveIdoneI'msorryI'msorryAngelI-_

_I gasp in shock. A cold hand laid on my face. A child's hand. Angel's hand…Tears still prick his doe-like eyes, cling breathlessly to his impossible lashes, bead like dew and diamonds down his perfect face…but they are tears of pain. Not betrayal. He knows. And those fragile fingers move softly, trace the lines of my own trickling tears, rest their tiny tips against my parted lips…I kiss them, my eyes adoring, reaching a hesitant hand to pull my Angel close…_

_He surrenders to my embrace. Safe, held warm and trembling against my heaving chest, safe in my arms where I will protect him, safe, held against the softness of my breasts, pale face bathed in those bastards' blood, a seal, a signet, a solemn promise they will never hurt him again…_

Lawless' large hands are trembling, and he shakes his head, fighting sickness. It isn't easy to hurt another. Not when you love them.

* * *

**23:11 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

"Good news." Lawless pants. "Lockman was negative. Your ACL's fine."

_Then why'd it hurt so fucking bad_, I don't have to ask. He is staring at the knee, engrossed and intent, mind steeling against his heart. "What the hell did you do to this?"

"Fell…rocks…"

"Uh-huh. And you dug them out with _what_, exactly?"

I feel suddenly foolish. It had seemed so rational at the time… "Keys." I whisper.

"Christ, woman. No wonder this looks like shit" He shakes his head in consternation, hazel eyes shutting, rolling far back into his head…"You know, Paltron…sometimes I think you're the goddamned _stupidest_ person I've ever met. No, I take that back." He says, running the fingers of his right hand through his hair. His nervous habit. "You're the most goddamn _stubborn_." He stops, phrases his next words carefully. "You wonder why you've been having trouble walking? Your MCL is s_hredded_."

"Just a shredded tendon?" I ask through clenched teeth, eyes tearing. It was goddamned stupid, digging blindly with the sharp edge of the keys…

Stupid. Asinine. Reckless. The sort of dumbass rookie mistake I can't afford to make….

He shakes his head. "There's no ''just' about it, Paltron. It's ripped to hell….it's a million dollar ligament. You cut that thing in surgery and you're in lawsuits up to your ass…I can't believe you've fucking walked on this."

"Yeah." I pant. And the real question: "What does it mean?"

"It's cartilage. Specialized connective tissue. Highly avascular. In your case it'll heal-if you fucking let it-but it's gonna take some time. Months. Years maybe."

Months. Years. Angel is dead. The Joker at large…I am fighting sickness and death. I do not have that long. Gotham does not have that long. "So that's it then?" I choke.

He shakes his head, grimacing. "Nah. That's just me bitching at you. Cartilage is de-nervated. No sensory or motor. It's just a structural support, like a joist. What's hurting like shit is you've got an obstruction of some sort still in the joint. Damn." He says. "If you've ground that joint capsule too much you're going to have to have surgery. Real surgery, you hear?"

I shake my head, baring my teeth.

"Stop being super-bitch and _listen_." He says gruffly, gesturing with the dripping scalpel in added emphasis. "You get broken pieces of plastic off that and you trigger an immune response. And that'll loosen the cement and you'll lose the whole damn joint, you hear? You're lucky this one's lasted this long."

He's fucking right. I don't have time to wait for another surgery, months physical therapy. I must be careful. Cautious. I have to conserve what little I have left…

The gentle tinkering of metal against glass, and he shakes the last drops of alcohol off the sterilized scalpel. "I'm just gonna open this up again, clean it better, get whatever the hell is stuck in there out-pray to God it's not part of the prosthetic- and pin it up the best I can." He says. "Sound good?"

I nod. "You're the doctor." But my whisper is muffled, dried lips snagging against the wood clenched between my teeth. He sighs. Shakes his greying head...

Then without warning, his hand slides up my thigh and I jerk back in instinctive fear, that glass falling and spinning in sharp shards across the marble floor, rising fumes choking me. Lawless withdrawals his hands as though burned, eyes squinting and uncertain.

"I need to compress your artery to get a bloodless field." He states slowly. "That okay/"

My heart is still hammering, adrenaline pumping, clenched fist around a stoneware soap dish. Unconscious. Nastic. Reflex. My wrist goes weak. Limp. I release it. Lawless didn't see. Doesn't know. But I do, horror and guilt welling up inside. Had he not retreated, had he waited a second longer, my hand would have flown on its own…

_Stupid bitch,_ I seethe. Yesterday I stood before Gotham's most notorious rapist and felt no fear…today the touch of a friend has sent me flinching. But yesterday I was vengeance. Fury. Tonight I am wounded and weak.

I nod nervously, not meeting his eyes. His hands slide uncomfortably up my bare leg, fingers palpating, pressing against the inside of my thigh.

* * *

**23:15 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

A folded towel. Blue exercise band. The homemade tourniquet cinches tighter on my leg, and I cry out in pain, my body protesting the deep, throbbing pinch…

His gloved hands are grimy, face and hair flecked with iodine. He closes his eyes, sighing deeply, rolling the handle of the scalpel in his shaking fingers. And in my fever I sudden wonder how it is that most major surgeries were performed before the days of modern anesthesia, ether, even chloroform…Lawless is a strong man. Perhaps the strongest I've ever met. Fiercely loyal and protective….yet contemplating my pain has nearly broken him. _Was is greater strength-or something more sinister-that permitted primitive surgeons to do what they did-?_

...I will soon know. "You ready?" He asks. I nod my head, baring my teeth, breathing deeply. I lay back, heart hammering, shuddering in fear. He grips my leg, looks me once in the eyes, and whispers _this is gonna hurt like hell._

The scalpel finds my skin. I feel the eerie pressure of his hand on my icy, feeling-less flesh, grow dizzy with the sudden, sickening spurt of blood-

"Close your eyes." He commands. I do.

More pain. More pressure. I am writhing.

"Lie still." He commands.

I groan. And comply. Pain. Sharp blade snicking through skin.

_Angel-!Bright metal against smooth skin, pressing deeper and deeper, a single, perfect bead of blood…And that Bastard's hideous, hellion grin…_

Pain. Only pain. And must bear it. Will bear it. Welcome it. _Savor _it. My teeth clamp harder into that pithy stick, the taste of the treat oozing from the splintering wood.

…I died with my son. Pain can no longer harm me. Only prolong my misery.

* * *

**23:27 **

**Lawless Residence**

My breathing is deep. Heart racing. The numbing effect of the ice has long since worn away and still I lay motionless. Minutes pass. He is meticulous, methodical, and the transcripts of the night of the Joker's initial capture echo in my aching head: _wanna know why I use knives? Guns are too quick…you can't savor all the…little emotions. Ya see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did…_

Lawless is stoic. Strength. His hands are steadfast, solid, never shaking, not even once. But he is not like the Joker. Not at all. He finds no relish, no release, no thrill of rape in neither pain nor fear.

_The little emotions…_Brows contorting. Flinching. Facial tics. Pressing lips or baring teeth. Jaw quivering or locked. What does he see? I take another ragged breath. _Stop being super-bitch and listen_…what is it he finds that drives me to do what I do? What I have done? Strength? Numbness? Obsession? Insantiy?

My heart quickens. _…and would he be right-? Have I become what they have always predicted? Harlene Quintzel, Joan Leland, Jim Gordon, Osiris….what if they were right? Am I a psychopathic killer, so insensitive to my own and other's pain and humanity that I must be locked away for the safety of others and my own as well-?_

Lawless' voice. Fading, distant: _Almost done._

I open my eyes, desperate for his familiar face, a firm reality, an anchor in this nightmare of doubt and disturbing dreams. Hydrogen peroxide. Lawless unscrews the cap and clear liquid pours smoothly from the dark bottle. For a moment, I feel nothing at all-

"_Nnnnnnuagh-!" _The noise escapes my lips against my will. Pink froth is bubbling from my knee, pouring warm and fizzy down my leg, gritty with gravel. The wound burns. Pulses. Throbs. I choke back vomit. Lawless places the flashlight in my trembling hands, directs me to sit up, hold it over the churning, blood smeared mess….

I do.

Forceps disappear. My eyes snap shut. Roll back… the flashlight falls from my fainting fingers. A sudden, stabbing pain. My leg jerks, Lawless' strong hands holding it down. "Hold still, I've almost got it _Paltron you've got to hold still-!"_

A sudden bang. My eyes fall open. Lawless whips his head-

"_What the hell are you doing-!"_ A shrill voice demands. I squint, the room spinning, head hanging awkwardly upside down from the soiled countertop…

Flashing blue eyes. Dark hair….Lawless' wife.

"I'm obviously having an affair." He snaps. "What's it _look_ like I'm doing, Ames?"

Silence. He is bent over my knee. Doesn't see. But for one sputtering, strange, surreal second an ugly look mars her careworn countenance. Anger? Guilt? The room is spinning, I cannot tell which-

Suddenly her eyes meet mine. Widen. Shift-

Then a sudden, jerking pop and a scream consume me, colors whirring fading blinding white, I am choking coughing throat dried from that cry-

She rushes to me, face paling, Lawless' strong arms stopping my fall to the hard floor below. I vomit. Uncontrollably. The sugarysweet-saltiness of Gatorade emptying from my stomach to the tile, sopping Lawless' chest, arm, my face the room is _spinning, sp__inning that woman blurring Lawless shaking my face shouting PaltronPaltronPALTRON-!_

The world goes white. I sleep.

…Angel's eyes open, staring into mine.

* * *

**23: 41 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

_I wake. Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. They are liquid and light, lachrymose yet laughter, dark curls falling softly against his pale and perfect face…_

"Don't know what your damn problem is."

_Voices. Raised voices…Angel's mother and father. Screaming-_

I wake. I am lying on my side, legs bare, right knee bandaged stiffly.

"Oh, so it's _my _problem? And what the hell were _you _thinking?" Amy Lawless' voice rings. It is low, but whiny. Girlish. Weak. Tinged with frustration. Mistrust….jealous and accusatory.

"She needed help, I helped her." A gruff voice counters. "_That's_ what I was thinking."

A huff of indignation, the rustle of plastic, hefting blood soaked towels into a black garbage bag. "You sneak her in here, don't even call, don't wake me up what the fuck was I supposed to think-"

Dull punch. Cracking plaster. "_Goddamnit, Ames!"_

_Flying hand. Bone on bone. Snapping acrylic. Sprawling limbs. Green eyes wide in shock, dead before she hits the floor-_

I sit up, eyes wide, feeling dirty and wretched, small and sick. They stop. Turn. Tiff forgotten. Ask me how I am…_You almost went into shock. Lost too much blood.__ Sat you up too fast. Stupid move...__More Gatorade, Tylenol. Use Amy's old asthma inhaler until I can get you some stronger steroids…We can wrap that if you want to clean up, take a bath…_

Pungent ammonia hangs in the air, clearing my aching lungs. The sink and floor are scrubbed spotless, no evidences of the butchery that occurred here. The bathwater is deliciously hot, bare feet slipping in, tensed muscles, feverish shaking immediately soothed. The downpour of the showerhead roars like the pounding rattle of machine-gun fire, echoing eerily in the tiled bathroom. My knee is stitched, bandaged tightly, swaddled in gauze, supported by athletic tape, and slick with saran wrap. Hardly waterproof. But enough, Lawless assures me, so long as it is not submerged.

I am suspended in the water, soiled beater translucent, sticking like a second skin. I am lethargic, lack the energy to strip, content to lay and let lapping waves of heat like memory roll over me…

_Home. Whole. A gentle cascade of warm water, pinkish blood gargling down the drain. Angel sits like a naked cherub, beautiful and breathtaking, elven and ethereal in the dripping downpour._

_I scrub his pale skin a shining pink, wash away the filth and shame of his abuse where it will be remembered no more. It is ritual. Sacred. Maternal. Like a cat licking clean her newborn kits. He sits still, patient, encircled in healing heat and a mother's fierce love. I blow bubbles in the soap and he smiles, paws my hand playfully as I cover his dark eyes, rinse the suds and soap away, hands shaking should they burn him. But he is tired. Fading fast. A stifled yawn, squinting eyes. He sighs sleepily as I wash his hair, bright eyes lost in his lashes, content with my caress...and suddenly he is sleeping. Pale face laid peacefully, resting in my open hands. _

_I drape him in a towel, hoist him dreaming from the tub. He is limp in my arms, cradled against my chest, naked and helpless and agonizingly beautiful. My clothes are soaking with warm water and blood from my long labor as I stroke his pale face. Kiss his dark curls. Dab the stubborn damp still clinging to his brows and lashes...and his bright eyes flicker open, fawning and content. Angel. He is mine. I am his. This is the life, the lie we have chosen: but it is not deceit. It is a gift. Precious. Bought with blood. Refined in fire. For I am Hannah. Naomi. And in the broken pleas of my barrenness I too have been granted a son..._

A sudden twinge in my breasts. Tears prick my eyes. Poignant and potent beyond measure of pain: _Child, behold your mother. Woman, behold your son.

* * *

_

**23:48 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

The door is open. Cracked. I rub the orange stain of iodine from my scarred skin as the din of angry voices seeps in from the hall. I lay my head against the cast iron tub, biting my lips in misery, the staccato rhythm of cascading water drowning their raising voices. But their fight has only gotten worse…

_Thehelldoyouthinkyou'redoing-!_

_WouldyoujustlistenforafuckingminuteAmes-!_

_I'msickofthisI'msickofitAaronisittoomuchtoaskyoutellmewhat'sgoingon-_

_FirstJimmynowthisisittoomuchtoaskthatyoujustfuckingTRUSTme-! _I shut my weary eyes, slip my head under the steaming water, but it's not enough, not nearly enough to block out her retaliatory cry.

"_You can't just take me for granted-!"_

Then silence. Deep, deathly silence. I surface, gasping for air, steam and sweat rising from my dripping face. Lawless' voice. Low. Begrudging. Bitter. A parting shot. "You're right, Ames…you're damn right." He growls. "I _can't."_

Angry footsteps. A door slams. And Amy Lawless is sobbing in the hall.

Even in the heat I shiver, settle lower in the tub, skin, stomach crawling. That intercourse was not meant for me to hear. And I feel guilty. Unwanted. Unwelcome. Even without these scars I am suddenly wretched. Because whatever Lawless may think, however much he may protest, joke that I have big, brass ones dangling between my legs, regardless of how much I try to forget or disguise what I am…I am still a Woman. And for the first time in six goddamned years I find I am not disgusted by her weakness…

_Jon. Jon-! I have hoped, prayed, cursed, pled…convinced myself that if I could just see him again, talk to him, be with him…that he would come back to me. That he would love me. Love me as relentless and passionately as I love him-_

_But he only stares. Folds his arms. "Look, can we make this quick? Nikki don't know I'm here."_

_Nikki And now I know her name. Red called her his bimbo girlfriend and tried to laugh it off. Bear called her a goddamned cunt and in a fit of drunken rage brought my wheelchair crashing down on her head. I know her only the woman who has taken my husband. My Jon. Hair done up, slinky black dress, even now I can see the glint of satiny paint on her manicured hands, dangling limply from the stretcher as they bundle her into the ambulance beside his unconscious form…_

_And even now, two months later, I am shaking. Shaking in fear and misery and doubt. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll, we'll um, we'll make it quick…" _

_I sniff and dab a tear from my bloodshot eyes. I raise my face to his, and his dull eyes are clouded. Unreadable. _

"_Jon, I-" and I lose it. Sobbing, whimpering, bawling like a baby. Heads turn. Patrons stare. The clink of silverware on china has ceased. And I cannot contain it. My jealousy consumes me. I am agonized, raw, bleeding, crying his name, crying his name like that day in Pakistan, my insides hot and sticky in my hands black blood running everywherescreamingJonJonJONohGodJON-!_

…neither do I pity. I simply understand.

And relief, relief like that hot water seeps through my soul with that nascent compassion. They were wrong. Wrong. All of them wrong. Foolish to think that I do not feel. For I am both human and hate, mother, and monster. A Killer…but not crazed.


	18. Erinys

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

* * *

**Tuesday, August 27th**

**24:00 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Bedraggled. Barren. Bereft.

Hair hanging in sheenless clumps, sleek and dripping. Greying circles spreading from sagging sockets, thin lips, slash of mouth, lifeless, baleful eyes like shriveled spider's eggs.

That body could be twenty. Supple, svelte. Legs still hard and lean. Breasts high and firm. But ruined. White skin shot with scars. There is no abdomen left, only a twisted pit of a navel to reveal it for what it is: human.

I stand on Lawless' tile floor, staring at the monster in the mirror before me. I shudder. I reach for the thick towel on the bar, wrapping it quickly around me, covering every inch of scar and womanhood until only my shoulders and legs remain. I pull it tighter, shivering.

It is red. Deep, rich red.

Alluring. Seductive. Mocking. And for a melancholy moment, I am in Paris.

"_HAWT DAMN!" Red calls, my face flushing laughing in embarrassment, blushing in his enthusiastic admiration. "Paltron, baby, why didn't you tell us you were a girl!" He takes my hand, spins me around in the small boutique. "Damn." He says again, taking me in from head to toe. "Now that's a dress."_

_I pull away. Turn to Bear. He is speechless. "Is it really that bad?" I tease._

"_You…look…amazing." Bear grunts, struggling to string the words together. _

_I let out a shriek of laughter, earning the disapproving glare of every other customer, not caring flouncing again to the floor-length mirror, smoothing the crimson fabric against my waist, turning, watching my lithe body spinning from every angle, girly, giddy, giggling I stop suddenly, flipping my hair from my face-_

_750 Euros. I don't care. I know this is the one. _

_They wrap my street clothes in the tissue lined box, I sit on the counter as they scan my dress, the shop-keeper's disapproving huffs and rapid murmurs only adding to my giddiness. Red has my bag, Bear holds the door, the scent of fresh-baked bread and sweet sunshine spilling in-_

_I squint into the sunlight, lightheaded and drunk with life. I am twenty. Beautiful and whole. My hair is long, silken, unbound, pale against the bright crimson of this ridiculously sexy little red dress. Bare legs, bare shoulders, I feel flirty and feminine and I like it. My step is high and so are my spirits. I turn heads on the crowded Paris streets, even Red and Bear can't seem to take their eyes off me…_

_After sixteen months in God-forsaken Warizistan, cold showers, MRE's, hot, sweaty, miserable periods I am fresh and clean, Sweet Jesus legs shaved! I feel the cool air against my smooth skin, relishing in the freshness of every breeze. _

_I'm in Paris, and I am laughing laughing laughing until my face is sore-I'm on leave, with my friends, in fucking Paris!, and I'm about to see Jon for the first time in six long, lonely months…_

_Stuffing our faces with hearty, hearth-baked bread we turn the corner, and suddenly, there she is, stark and majestic against the sunny sky: The Eiffel Tower. Unoriginal, overused haunt of meeting lovers for over a century…sappy, story-book romantic but every girl wants to be that girl if even at least for a moment. Jon's face before mine I run faster, harder, my heart pounds, face flushed with excitement I take the stairs two, three at a time Red whistling at me from below I don't care legs gloriously sore sweat-soaked skin I feel so goddamned alive-!_

_I reach the first platform. They're calling for me to wait. I can't. The City of Light spreads breathless and beautiful in every direction but I have eyes only for the next flight of steps, the dizzying steel platform where Jon will be-_

_I see his eyes his shaven head feel the touch of his skin on mine-_

_The last steps. Legs burning, lungs aching, heart pounding in exertion and giddy excitement, a sudden, swooping shudder that has nothing to do with the whipping wind, I stand stock still: Jon. _

_Jon-! _

_He turns slowly I am running, running and in one glorious second I am in his strong arms, swung in the air, shrieking, his desperate lips against my neck, my face, my chest, his smooth shaven head under my fingertips, eyes closed, tearing, the pain of our separation a sudden, stabbing anguish-_

_Hands in my hair he holds me close. I press his face against mine, between each long, desperate kiss he pants my name as if we were making love-_

_I'm a Marine. A soldier. But I'm also a woman…and even without this damn tower, this little dress, the city of Paris or the country of France…when I'm with Jon I am a princess._

…_And I don't mind being that girl. Don't mind it at all._

Tired. Exhausted. Mind playing tricks. I was never that girl. I was only Young. Naïve. Foolish. No longer. Naivety and innocence in Gotham will only get you killed…and bitterly do I know it. There are no princesses, no castles, no ogres and no heroes. There is no once upon a time, no happy endings. Life is pain. And remorse. No more. We live. Give birth. Die. That is our legacy.

I am no longer young nor naïve. I am thirty-nine. Wretched and ruined. Betrayed, abandoned and abused. The towel is crimson, like my hands, stained a sanguine scarlet.

It is blood. And it will not be washed away.

* * *

**24:03 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

There are voices from the hallway. Lawless. Apologetic, gentle, mild. Her crying ceases. Footsteps then silence…

My hair hangs dripping in my face, cool drops like freezing tears fall from clumping tendrils like an eerie Gorgon's head. I will shear them. Will wear my mourning openly. Will no longer bear the mark of a woman…

My weight is on my left leg as my aching fingers search the drawers for scissors. Yet here they stumble over a strange enigma. Electric razor. Mouthwash. Men's deodorant and shampoo. I uncap them, bring their dark forms to my face, drink their familiar scent…they are light. Mild. Subdued and adolescent. My eyes frown shut, clouded in pain and exhaustion. I know this scent…but it is not Lawless'…not his wife's…

Sedated. Satiated. Wafting waves of nostalgia and sleepiness rise in the steamy mist. I open my eyes. Dark, rich blue hues stretch across the walls. Marble counter, stone floor. Simple. Satisfied. Youthful yet Strong. To whom does this room belong-?

But my reverie is cut short. Shrill, sharp cry. Woman's voice. I drop the plastic bottle and it bumps along the floor, soap spilling heedless and slick like blood on the tile below…

The intrigue of that strange scent, my exhaustion, illness…Was it hallucination? Regression?

…Lawless' wife?

Doubt grows sinister in the silence. I resist the urge to call out. Question. I tense, wait for running footsteps, Lawless' assertive voice…but deep in my heart I know he would never keep his woman waiting…then another voice speaks in the silence.

"_Commme out come out where ever you are!"_

…Joker-!

Heart racing adrenaline pumping rational thought tumbles away I have never hated so strongly-

My wounds have cost me my revenge once…I will not be so weak again. My hand reaches achingly to Art's berretta, and its steel strength seeps down the stock into my fingers. I raise the gun to my death-white face, shift it over my left shoulder, slide serpentine along the wall. I can wait. Wait here. Wait for footsteps along the dark hall, the crunch of Ian's toy cars under unwitting feet…

But he will not let me wait. Hide. I must go to him…and I must be ready. Silently I slink into the hall, eyes scanning up, down, left, right. The midnight air is still, stagnant. The Night listens with me, waiting for his hiss of breath in the silence…

I loosen my fingers. Shift my grip.

A bullet is not satisfactory. It is too quick. Too clean…but I can dam back my fury no longer. Every second that bastard is loose another child may die. I have sent my Angel to his death…I will have no more innocent blood on my hands. But a murderer's? I will lick, lap, savor it like a starving cur…

_I'm here, motherfucker. You ready to die?_

…He has taken my son. I will take his life.

* * *

**23:08 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

I am Death. I am a Hunter. I stalk my prey slowly. He will not escape again.

My feet are noiseless, my breath lusty, the burning ache of adrenaline and anticipation eating through me. Bastard. Motherfucker. Niddingsvark. A valkyrie is loosed, yet no Valhalla waits, no whispering wings come for reward and glory…just the fiery torments of Hel. A week ago, an Angel died in Gotham City. My son was taken from me, and blood only will I have as a weregild for his death…

The hall is empty, silent, and dark. I listen, but there are no sounds. No life. There is a portrait, dim in the darkness: Lawless, his wife, his young son…_ohfuckohnofuckfuckFUCK!_ that short, strangled scream-!

_Gotham Memorial. His wife lies snoring in the hospital bed, hair disheveled and dark against the pillows. Lawless is tired, haggard, has not slept in 48 hours but still radiating a palpable, parental joy. I have broken my rule for him, have begrudgingly come to the neonatal ward of Gotham Memorial, Gotham Memorial where nine years ago I lost my only son…and now another child lays sleeping before me. Ian Anthony Lawless. Five pounds, seven ounces, 18 inches long…swaddled and cuddled in a Gotham Knights blanket. _

_Baby boy, I whisper. Lawless is staring expectantly at me, glowing in paternal pride. I am numbed. Sickened. I do not know what to say…_

"_He's…he's um, he's fucking small." I state._

_He grins in the darkness, staring down at the sleeping child. "Yeah. He's pretty damn small. Be a few more years before he's catching footballs…but he'll grow. He'll grow." Lawless smiles up at me, hunched over the bassinet. His next three words wound me deeply: _

"_Wanna hold him?" For nine years my empty arms have yearned for my child…but I am no longer a mother. I am a monster. Do I wish to hold him-?_

_Yes._

_…and no._

Ian Anthony Lawless. His toy car lies shattered and broken with finality on the forgotten floor. And I feel guilt, guilt and bile and insatiable rage…

Lawless. His wife. Young son. I was a fool to come here. Accept Lawless' help. Put him and his family recklessly in danger. I am a curse. Whatever I love I lose, my womb barren and bitter, bringing forth only destruction and death…

Unwittingly, unwillingly, I have killed again.

A gentle drip, tear explodes on the muzzle of the gun, broken and bloody on the cold hard metal. Bitter, bitter bile rising thick and fast in my burning throat. Then that Bastard's voice, lyrical and taunting. "…_Where are you? What are you waiting for, hmmm? Why don't you just…come out-tuh? You don't disappoint, do ya? Ya just sit there and let people, hmm, die…"_

Trembling. Chest heaving. A week ago, an Angel died in Gotham City. The Devil is yet loose and good men fall like weeds before his scythe. Lawless. His wife. Young son…

Enraged. Lusting. Yearning. Beserk for the bitter taste of blood. And this terrible thirst cannot be quenched nor assuaged. I will wash away the stains of these innocents in the scarlet of the Joker's blood yet it will not be enough….

…It will never be enough.

* * *

**24:09**

**Lawless Residence**

Movement. Breath. I spin, raise Art's Berretta, blind in the sudden light-

"Paltron, what the hell-?"

...shock. Speechless. Blinking stupidly...

"Lawless!" And suddenly my arms are around him, the scratchy stubble of his beard raising gooseflesh on my naked neck, my chin nestled on his shoulder. I close my eyes. Hold him tightly. Whisper _JesusfuckingChrist_.

His hands hanging awkwardly finally move to my shoulders. Hold me at arm's length. He laughs uncertainly, says y_ou look like you've seen a ghost…_

_"The stakes haven't changed. I want the um, Batman." _Joker!

I am pale, trembling. But now that voice is tinny. Mechanic. A recording broadcasted over television. _Stupid, stupid bitch_. I shake my head, icy adrenaline turning numb inside me.

Sopping wet. Standing in his hallway wearing nothing but a towel, holding nothing but a retired service pistol. I must look utterly deranged. "I heard him, Lawless." I whisper. "Joker. Thought he was here."

He tries to laugh. "Why would the Joker be here?" But it isn't funny. Not a question of if. Only when. He is a cop in a corrupt city, flailing in her final moments of rabies, where the best men like him can do is wipe random flecks of foam from her gaping maw until her gnashing teeth finally consume their courage.

I shrug, bare shoulders shivering. Adrenaline let down. Pain, exhaustion catching up..."Saw him today…Saw him at TV 18…"

But my words, like my eyes, have trailed away. TV 18. Angel's sobs. Imagined. I blink heavily, but the image on the wall is seared in my retinas: Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. Smiling in a goddamn photo frame...I blink. Shake my head, but the spectre will not go away…

My knees buckle. I lean against the wall, one palm flat against the cold paint, the other forearm resting against the doorway, Art's Berretta still clenched in my fist. Lawless' large hand envelops mine, and I relinquish the gun willingly. I am crazed. Hallucinating. Should not hold a weapon…

_Angel. Ian. Laughing in a mess of autumn with leaves in their curly hair. Angel. Ian. Younger boy on his shoulders, wind-whipped cheeks stained pink standing beside a snowman now clad in his hat, scarf, gloves...._

"Sorry," He mumbles, removing the magazine and opening the chamber to dump out the loaded round. He places it heavily in my palm. For the second time in three days I stare at this strange cylinder, feel its weight in my fingers. "I've got a kid, you know? I try to keep a strict no guns policy-"

Worry clouds his eyes. He misjudges me.

"Paltron...do you think my family's in danger-?"

I snort a laugh, cringe a sob. That face. It surrounds me, Eats me. I clutch my head, sniff in misery…in madness. Raise tear-streaked, bloodshot eyes, and whisper _I don't know._

* * *

**24: 12 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Harsh, gravelly tones. "You're not imagining things."

"W-what?" I whisper, eyes still drawn to that beautiful, smiling face...

Rough hand on the back of my arm. "It's there." He says simply. "Took that one last October. This was New Year's...this was the fourth of July cookout we just had-"

_Angel. Ian. Jimmy Jr. and little BB Gordon. Anna Ramirez's three dark children. All piled on the sagging porch swing, laughing in the summer sun, hair dripping wet from swimming in the pool-_

I turn. Our eyes meet. Hazel and crystal. And I know. I know. It passes in a look...

And I am speechless. Jealous. Torn between envy and gratitude...if only I hadn't been so hard. So callous. So blind. Had stayed in touch with Lawless. Made an effort to reach out, befriend his rookie partner. Perhaps I too would have shared this past year with a boy who was like a son to me...

_Squinting in sunlight faces fingers stained bright with food coloring the boys just love 'em I've got a deep freeze full of nothing but goddamned red popsicles-_

And I remember Angel running to Gerald, my heart breaking, hands holding him back, relenting, releasing...because the only thing a child longs for more than a mother is a loving father. I blink. A tear falls. The nightmares of his childhood, an adolescence alone, alienated, with no father-figure, no male mentors...and given the choice again, I know which one he would choose-

But I do not begrudge him. Angel wanted, needed a father...and I can think of no better man than the one who stands silent beside me.

"Lawless, I-" But I can't choke out the words.

..I don't need to. He _holds_ me. Holds me tight against his chest like he would our son, like no one has held me in nineteen years. Facetwistedbrowsknotted clenching Angel's bullet tight in my quaking fist, wiping my streaming eyes nose againandagain across his shoulder...

_Tracking Room. Women's restroom. Coughing my guts out. _

_Hot water rises from the tap, steam eases my aching lungs. I plunge my hands in, oblivious to the pain, wash that dust and grime away from my face, my arms, my chest-_

_The door opens. Lawless. My shirt is open down past my bra but I don't give a shit. "What up?" I choke. _

_"You okay?" He asks._

_"Fucking fine."_

_"You sound like Hell." He says._

_I wrench the faucet off. "I just had a fucking building dropped on me, Lawless. I think I can handle a little Vick's Vapor Rub." _

_He grins. Shakes his head tiredly. "You sure?"_

_"Yeah." I say, wiping my face with rough paper towel. I raise my eyes to his. "Yeah." He came for me. Saved my life. And that thanks falls heavily in the silence. _

_"Guess we're even now." He chuckles. Fear Night. Has it only been two years-?_

_Then another question. Inevitable. He shifts his weight, squints his eyes. Runs the fingers of his right hand through his greying hair. "You and...you and Connolly?"_

_Connolly. Goddamn Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. I feel the warmth of his flesh against my fingers, cold shock, fear, disbelief stabbing again through my heart. His dark eyes are dull with pain, yet he rolls his head instinctively to my touch...Jimmy Connolly. My hand lies on the face of a young man, but his eyes...his eyes are my Angel's eyes, tearing in pain, brows knit, tiny mouth open in agony..._

_My heart grows still in my breast. No more dreams. Nightmares. Bitter nights of black regret. I wake. And Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. Irislostinlashes they squint, widen...clear._

_...And for one shrinking, silent second, the curtain is rent. _

_"Wherewereyou!" A voice cries in Eden chirping words fall shrieking and shrill, he sitsuppullsawayshoutsagainwherewereyou-!_

_Breathless. Choking. An ache in my heart that threatens to burst. Burning cold in the pit of my navel, dark eyes from plaster-coated pits accusingburningtearingstreaking glass dust debris turn to mud run in senseless splotches mar his flawless face-_

_"Wherewereyou!" He screams again "Wherewereyou!"_

_"Angel-" Thirteen years. Long lonely miserable years. Trembling. Wretched. Alone under the shrinking sky and his dark eyes are agony and accusation, and I cringe naked before the judgement seat. "Angel, Angel, I-"_

_I have looked for a boy. A child...yet he is now a man and my hands falter, fingertips stretching for his streaming face so boyishly beautiful-_

_"Yousaidyou'dcomebackforme! Iwaitedforyou! I waited for you and you never came younevernevercame!" He cries, desperate, panting, tiny teeth bared..."Where were you!" He sobs. "Where were you-!" _

_Slow, shuddering sigh. I shake my head, stare into his doe-wide eyes, their dew stained lashes. HeartburstingbreaststwingingeyespricklingdehydratednotearsleftocryheisbeautifulbreathtakingandIlefthimIlefthimIfuckinglefthim-_

_"I'm here now." I moan. "Angel...I'm here now."_

._..the only apology I can offer. _

_Silence. His pale lips part._

_"Mamulya-" And my outstretched fingers brush his face he falls into me sobbing sobbing my Angel is sobbing I taste his tears salty blood sweetscentedsweat, feel the flash of his throat, the warmth of his breath cannot kiss him hard enough hold him close enough belching smoke falling ash roar of sirens dust dust everywhere armageddon yet it pales fades inconsequential insubstantial nothing, nothing compared to the boy now weeping against my breast-_

_I brush the curls from his eyes. Kiss his tears away caress the smooth skin of his cheeks, finger running down the soft skin of his nose he clings to me clings to me wipes his noseeyesblood against me againandagainandagain Angel looks into my eyes believes they are all he needs...._

_Yet a strange voice from another world, like a forlorn and forgotten past comes faint through this fog...Paltron, Paltron he's hurt bad...Paltron, Paltron look at me..._

_But Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. I will not, cannot look away they are liguid and light, silence and sorrow. Those adoring dark eyes flit shut, tears dancing on lashes brush like butterflies against my bare skin._

_Large hands under shoulders strong arms threaten to tear him away I struggle pull him closer those sleeping eyes flying open shouting NoNoN'et-!_

_I blink. Lawless. Paltron, he says. Paltron, he needs to go to the hospital-_

_"Paltron?" Lawless asks. I look up, jerked from memory. Angel's scent still lingers not two hours old, smooth skin still soft against mine...I bow my head. Button my shirt. Reach for Art's Berretta. I tuck it in my waist "You wouldn't understand."_

I open my eyes over his shoulder. Another picture. Sepia tones, Old West Theme. One of those piece of crap costume places you find at the County Fair._ Wanted, dead or alive for the crimes of smelly laundry and leaving the toilet seat up: Aaron Lawless and Jimmy 'The Kid' Connolly._

A week ago today I held my son and told Lawless he wouldn't understand.

...I was wrong.

* * *

**24:18 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

We break apart, an odd understanding heavy between us. "You okay?" He asks.

I nod. Sniff. Wipe my nose on the back of my arm. Raise my eyes to his. "I need some fucking sleep."

_"What will it, uh, what will it take? What's gonna make you...understand? How long are ya gonna le-t this go on?" _The Joker's voice. We flinch. Lawless grimaces, whispers motherfucker, shakes his head. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you do." He slaps my back, and I am a man again. "Brought you this." He bends, hands me the mess of laundry now laying forgotten on the floor. Ratty old T-shirt. Gym shorts, sweat shirt. "Thought my wife might like it a little better than the towel." He tries to smile, but it dies in his eyes. "Get changed. Go sit in the living room. I'm gonna get you some tea."

I hear his heavy footfalls, shiver as cold, dripping water goes running down my back, forming a puddle at my feet. A single drop from my still-wet hair runs down, beads perfectly on the tip of my nose. I am alone in a hall of memories and might have beens-

"And tell Amy to turn the damn channel." He growls from the kitchen.

* * *

**24:21 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

_"…Ya see, I'm a man of my word. One school, for every day. One down...and you, all of you, decide how many more to go."_

I limp to the living room, right leg weak and sore. Amy Lawless sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, remote in her lap. The blue sheen of the television makes her worn face pale in the darkness. I stand behind her in the darkness, mesmerized, horrified yet enchanted by the Bastard's speech. He has...charisma. Hitler, resurrected. Exaggerated gestures, captivating passion...

_"Ya see, the only uh, sensible way to live in a senseless world...is without rules. Oh, sure, you can try in-ven-ting some, try to make everyone play your game...religion, governmen_t_...and ya all know how welllll those have tured out: the Crusades...Third Reich...and people get a lit-tle disheartened, sound...fam-i-li-ar? But a rule that has to be written...isn't a rule at all. Ya know I call myself the Joker, but you...you're all absurd! Ya make up this, uh, this big game of pretend...and it's all fun and games until someone gets...hurt."_

Then it gets serious, motherfucker. Then the people you oppress rise up and sting you in the ass, I seethe.

_"Because when it gets tough, when it gets...personal, ya start to ignore the rules. Ya drop ' ni-ice people get hur-t when someone _ignores_ the rules. If you ignore them-when you ignore even _one_!-then society goes down the um, drain. A speed limit sign here, a red light there…and your well manicured perfect little world goes straight ta hell..." _

He smiles, yellow eyes alive with malice._ "Ya see folks, the truth is, a whole hell of a lot of innocent people-of little uh, kiddos-died today…but little old me didn't kill an-y-body-"_

My heart falls. Stomach twists. Punch line to the worst joke I will ever hear. He set the bombs, yes. Set them off after the schools were emptied, cleared...had never intended to kill children himself...

Silence. Sinister smile. Arching brow. Knowing wag of that hideous head. _"…you did."_

...he let Gotham do the dirty work for him.

Amy Lawless raises her fragile fingers to her face. Presses her mouth. Horrified. She is not the only one. Parents are grieving all across Gotham...a_nd there is a Great Cry in all of Egypt, such as there has not been heard before, and such as will never be again. _

* * *

**24:23 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

I shift my weight from my throbbing right leg. The movement catches her eye, and she whips her head, dark hair fanning. She eyes me scathingly, chewing her tongue.

"Why the hall you watching this?" I ask.

"Because I have the right to know, okay?" She snaps. "If it bothers you, _leave_."

I am silent. Instead I sit. Shaking. Exhausted. The Bastard's leering face looms from the television, magnified and maleficent, a scab still visible under his scars and horrid death mask: _Angel._

What to say? How to say it? I have never been comfortable around women. Even as a child preferred the company of men. Perhaps because my father left us. Perhaps because I was taller, faster, stronger, went through puberty young, the brunt of all feminine envy and spite…perhaps because then, even then, I had admiration for independence and strength, and little patience for the weak. I despise my weakness and womanhood…and Lawless' wife is both.

Yet here I am, in her house, enjoying her hospitality, and in the last six years, I've seen more of her husband than she has...and she-for however short a time-took Angel in...

"I'm…I'm not like you." I say. A strangled apology, a thanks...

"No." She retorts simply. '"No, you're not."

_Laughter. Chit-chat. Light, girlish hor d'ourves…._

_My jaw is set. Lips pressed. I am surrounded by bright clouds of balloons, heaps of presents, talkative, giggling strangers. Amy Lawless' baby shower. And I know no face but hers…and even she seems shocked to see me._

"_Uh, Gwen!" She says loudly, "I'm…I'm glad you could make it…sign in, help yourself to the food…" _

_All of her friends are here. Talking, giggling, discussing children and childbirth three of them are fucking pregnant. Spring dresses and flipflops flowery perfume I stand a head taller in street clothes look like a fucking dyke...I won't-can't-stay for long. Cursory glances. Questioning looks. I am avoided by all..all but a particularly chatty girl has had too much champagne. Tries to start a conversation..._

_"Do you-" She casts wildly about for a topic, "-have any kids?" _

_Bitter taste in my throat. Churning knot in my stomach. I set my glass down. Excuse myself. In the bathroom, headache. Anxiety. I've held up in the line of fire, taken a bullet for a friend, and I'm fucking vomiting at a baby shower? It is weakness. Jealousy. Sorrow._

_But I will not be left alone. Voices. Laughter. _

"_Who the hell was that?"_

"_Gwen Palron. She works with my husband. I had no idea he invited her-"_

"_Is that weird? For you, I mean. That he spends all his time with her-"_

_A derisive laugh. "At first, yeah. But did you take a good look? No way he'd screw her over me."_

_Laughter. I am used to it. All my adolescence I was taller. Faster. Stronger. Teased, harassed mercilessly for starting my period, for my developing breasts by classmates who would hit puberty three or four years later…_

"_Doesn't seem to be having fun, does she?" Another voice interrupts them. That tipsy friend-_

"_To be honest, I have no idea why she even came." Lawless' wife says. "She _hates_ kids."_

"_Okay, so you're pregnant. It doesn't give you an excuse to be a complete bitch."_

"_Pardon?" The other friend asks._

"_Come on guys, give her some credit—what if she had a miscarriage or something?"_

_Silence._ _Sudden snort. Low whisper of but that would imply she's actually had sex-!__ Peals of laughter. Lawless' wife's loud guffaw. "Alright, girls, I've got guests to see-"_

_And she is gone. I want nothing better than to disappear. Wish I had never come. Fucking stupid. Why the hell did I even show up? The fuck was Lawless thinking, inviting me to come…but I'm a woman. And it's a goddamn baby shower…Social norm. Politeness. I know Lawless. Know him well. And I had to come, had to pay my respects…_

_Fuck it. I'm going home._

_I wrench open the door, stalk to the sink, washing my hands with composure. They continue their chatting, oblivious as I yank paper towel from the dispenser…then I turn. And all laughter has suddenly ceased…_

_Her two friends stand nervous. Silent. Wondering. Mouths still open, their next sentences now dead upon their lips._

_I stop only at the door. Smile. Say "Hell of a party, ain't it?"_

_The door swings open. Swishes shut. I leave. And to hell with the consequences._

I smile bitterly, that olive branch plucked from my beak and dashed to pieces. And that understanding, that compassion fades to mere pity. I shake my head, suddenly heavy and aching. Like my heart. "You honestly think I've always been this way, don't you." I whisper.

And she, like them, has nothing to say.

* * *

**24:27 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

"You shouldn't be watching this." Lawless says, setting a tray of mugs on the coffee table, squeezing in between us.

"I can watch whatever the fuck I want." She snaps.

He leans over, places a hesitant, scratchy kiss on her cheek. "I know babe...I just don't want you upset."

She rolls her tearstreaked eyes. Lifts the remote, changes the channel. Wordlessly Lawless hands me a hot mug, frothy and creamy with milk and sugar. I take it. He offers one to his wife-

"No thanks." She whispers. "I'm decaffeinating."

Lawless snorts. "Hell of a time."

"Might be the only time." She says, and his eyes squint, a sudden pang. He places one arm around her, pulls her closer. She nestles her head reluctantly against his shoulder, dull eyes widening as her face hits the wet stains from my dripping hair, tears, nose...

I take another deep draught of tea. Ignore her. Let them have this moment together...But it is not to be.

_"This is Rebecca James, reporting from Gotham Methodist where-as you can see-people are lined up outside for admittance to the ER facilities. Methodist alone is reporting an influx of 2,300 patients, many treated for serious to critical automobile related injuries. Hospital staff urge those with minor injuries to remain at home, and a hotline has been set up for treatment and consultation. With the Legacy and, and todays new atrocities, the hospital is operating at above its fullest capacity-"_

Amy Lawless snorts. Tears streak her face, black blotches of mascera ugly and bitter. "You forgot the fucking hallways filled with bodies because there isn't enough room in the morgue." She whispers, raises her hand, changes the channel-

Familiar face. Jim Gordon. I tense. Lawless tightens his grip on her slender waist. Flashing light bulbs, shouts of reporters, jostling news crews, storming citizens. He stands in IA before the Shield emblem, about to make an official press statement. His hair is grey. Face careworn. He looks a decade older than even this afternoon...

_"Ladies and gentlemen, residents of Gotham City, as per the request of Mayor Garcia, the National Guard will continue to take charge of the crisis in Gotham City. The GCPD is working with them in full cooperation, and we pledge to find those responsible and bring them to justice. I ask that you comply with their wishes, abide by their curfew, and offer no further provocations for unnecessary violence-"_

_CommissionerGordondoyoubelieve-_

_It'sanillegaloccupation-_

_FuckingterroristattackJokerloosenowthesearmyfucksbeshootin'ourkidsinthestreets-_

_"As far as Gotham City Public School Corporation, we are taking steps to ensure student safety-"_

_GCPDcan'tevenensuretheirownsafetyhowtheyhellyougonaprotectourkids-!_

_"-and the schools will remain open. I personally urge every parent to consider carefully the ramifications of pulling their child out-"_

_Yourkidsweren'tevenatschooltodayyoufagfuckingfagyouknewitwascomingyouknewthiswascoming-_

_Cold, hard fear. A riot is ensuing. Jim holds up his hands in protest, tries to regain control, attention...but the mob surges forward lusting for blood Renee Montoya and Crispus Allen drag him away shots are fired peoplescreamingpanicchaosmayhemthecameratopplesspinswhirlsallgoesblack..._

...Static.

I choke on my tea. Close my eyes. Amy Lawless is whispering _oh my GodohmyGodohmyGod-!_

He is not a God. Just a man. A twisted, perverted man who delights in violence and terror. And closing the schools only shows us that he is a god, that he has the power on a whim to change everything we know about our lives. I know Gordon. He would have them remain open to combat this. But even the Joker knows that not mourning for our dead only shows us how accustomed and desensitized we are to violence. If we can ignore his atrocities, they cease to be atrocities…

The Joker knows this. He counts on this. Either way, the Joker wins.

He ignores the rules. He writes his own. We cannot win by following some disillusioned code of honor…we can only fight. We can only lose.

Can God forgive me for what I've done? For what I intend to do? For lives to be saved, lives must be lost…

_There is an appointed time for everything—A time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh…A time to search-_

Angel, I moan.

_-and a time to give up as lost. A time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace…_

I am Hadassah. Perhaps I have lived for such a time as this.

I can do what others cannot. Gordon cannot bend the rules-he can never win...

"Why do people do that why do they do that why the _fuck _do people do that-!" Lawless' wife whimpers. I open my eyes.

...and like him, Lawless has a family. Much to lose. They cannot be asked to risk that.

But I am a Killer. An unusual Killer. With no family. No collateral. Nothing left to live for. Only a Killer can stop the Joker. Only someone willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to bring that Bastard down will be able to catch him. And I know now what I must do: I must accept his terms, must play his hand against him…

"I don't know, Ames. I just don't know," Lawless soothes.

I rise, tear-blinded, stagger drunkenly to the hall, slip on Ian's toy cars stumble against the wall back against the baseboard arms around m¥ aching knees. Redemption or damnation…in a world where Angels die, there is no longer any difference. Is my vengeance justice? Does it matter-as long as that Bastard dies? His death is justice, motivation be damned. _For he who sheds man's blood, By man shall his blood be shed…_That Bastard should've been killed last year after murdering Surillo, Loeb and Dawes and all those other countless hundreds. But even here, here in the vilest city in the world people refuse to believe in evil. Instead of criminal he was criminally insane. Instead of retribution they cried for rehabilitation.

...Instead of justice, they created a jest.

And now that Joke is haunting them: The Joker is back.

Serial killers establish patterns, even relationships with their investigators, leaving clues, messages, subtle taunts and threats behind for others to examine, catalogue, and nightmare over. Scum like Nabokov. But the Joker is no ordinary killer. He doesn't target based on age, race, gender, or any other objective variable. He kills solely for psychological impact. My Angel died because he was young and good, and believed in hope…he was chosen because his death would create the most chaos, instill the most terror, like the innocents who died today...

My Angel was given a chance to fight, defend himself...but that's what the Joker intended. _You can stand, Gotham. You can fight back. But you can never win…_

It would be easier to submit. To bow and worship our new 'god'. He got to us last year, looking for the Batman, discord and unrest even against Harvey Dent... he allied this city against their savior.

Psychological impact. Terror. Chaos. For the year the Joker was in Arkham, the criminals of this city went back to fighting each other for dominancy. With him loosed, they will band together under him…or cower away in secrecy. I must re-ignite their hatred. Pit them against each other. Rouse them from their gutters and filth to strike against each other anew. I will create so much chaos and terror that they will weigh their options, and choose instead to live…

….This time, Gotham will surrender the Joker.

My road will be messy, but it has to be. For I am playing the Joker's game. The Board is set. The pieces moving. The rules? There are none. The objective? Annihilation. The Joker's weapons are violence and chaos, fear and terror…I will make them mine. He made me a part of his damn chess game when he took Angel. I intend to finish it.

Gotham is the board. The Joker's pieces black, Gordon's, white…

I am grey. And I refuse to be a pawn.

* * *

**24: 40 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Connolly's bedroom. I lay in this shrine drifting off to sleep. That tea creamy and sugared-hiding the taste of the crushed pills. Tylenol PM. Or eszopictone. For depression. Psyche diagnosed him last year. Like hell he took any of it. When a there's a motherfucking bastard on the loose threatening everything you hold dear, a man has the right to be depressed, sleepless, restless...It's a symptom of humanity not illness. It's hitting hard. Fast. Lawless appears in the door, smiles grimly.

"You drugged me, you bastard." I mumble.

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't follow up on it. Wife's home, you know." Lawless throws the comforter over me. It is routine, Habitual. A father's instinct. It causes a sudden pang: it was our_ son_ he covered…and jealousy and gratitude grow choking in my heart. . "You've got Gatorade and water here on the nightstand if you need it. This-" he holds up a small speaker, "is Ian's baby monitor. The other one's in my room. You so much as sit up, I'll hear it."

"That's ridiculous." I whisper, eyes already closed, tearing, breathing deeply the lingering scent on the pillowcase. _Angel_. The faint, sweet smell of sweat, and I feel his soft hair against my palms, curled between my fingers _I hold him close his breath on my skin he nuzzles me nestles closer…_There are warm waves of sleep wafting slowly over me. I cannot remain conscious much longer. "I'll keep…keep you up…" I begin coughing again. Lightly, gently-

Hand under my head. Another pillow. His voice comes faintly, as though from a distance. "Better?"

"Mmmh." My eyes are shut, heart-rate plummeting, muscles relaxing into the downy mattress, dreams of Angel…but something holds me back. Something pressing. Urgent. Hidden…

I open my eyes. The clock reads forty minutes past midnight.

Midnight...

…_Stalton's ex-general._

I sit up again, eyes wide. "Wait."

He turns at the door.

I am panicked. "Where are my pants?"

Lawless shakes his head bemused. "Are you just damn determined to make this the most awkward night of my life, or-"

"There's a reason, goddamnit. Where are they?"

Suspicion. Doubt. He tosses them slowly. My scrabbling fingers grope for my wallet-

And there it is. Stalton's list. And with it, my date with his supplier.

"_250 fifty-second street_." I read.

Lawless pales. The temperature drops. "What did you say,"

"250 fifty-second street. Midnight. Tomorrow. You've got to call it in-"

I look to his face, and primal fear is written there. He's a good cop. Has good instinct. Perhaps the sickly sweet smell of death still lingers….

"Palton," he whispers, "that's where…that was…that was Dawes. That was over a year ago-"

Dawes. Rachel Dawes. ADA. Both bitch and martyr. He is right. And right to be concerned. But I am not insane. Not hallucinating. This is the address.

"It's an arms drop. Military munitions. You'll need SWAT." I whisper. Wordlessly I rip the paper. Extend my hand. I am weak. Wounded. Drugged and fading fast. Much depends on this. I wait seconds. Heartbeats. _Eternity…_

...Our fingertips touch.

The paper is crumbled, stiff, flecked with blood. He takes it from my shaking hand, peruses it with a paling face. His hazel eyes are lowered to mine, hesitant and troubled. He crosses the floor, footsteps echoing eerily, and turns, only once, to ask me _what did he mean to you?_

"Nothing." I answer.

The lights flick off. Lawless stands silhouetted in the door frame.

"…_Everything."_


	19. Martyr: Vivire

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: Thank you to everyone who has kept reading and reviewing! J-Horror Girl, Beowulfwulf, and Darkness Takes Over, you have all been an amazing encouragement for this story. Especial and heartfelt thanks goes out to Grace Dark whose honesty and criticism are always appreciated! **

**Every OC in Gotham City has been camping inside my apartment like rabid Lord of the Rings fans flocking to New Zealand for a chance to be an extra for the Hobbit. If you've lost an OC, please come and claim him/her! Or if you need some new OC's as extras or minor characters, feel free to take some off my hands. If not, at least check out the Batman Begins/Dark Knight fics written by the previously mentioned authors, as they all have created their own unique and wonderful original casts. You won't be disappointed!**

**I blame Peter Jackson, Tom Clancy, and Alan Moore for everything.**

**This is the last Legacy chapter, albeit split into two parts for manageability and sanity's sake. _Martyr: vivire_, and _Martyr: morrire_ are one long unit, in the same flashback format used previously. **

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't often find it necessary to make disclaimers but this chapter merits one. All opinions, views, commentaries and ideals expressed by characters of _Ernestina _are** THEIR OWN, **and have no reflection on the author's personal beliefs or even tastes towards the use of racial, religious, or ethnic discrimination. With any and all characters expressing religious viewpoints I have tried my best to research and represent them accurately, and in **NO MEANS** am attempting to mock their faith. While this story is fiction, religious convictions are very real and should **NEVER** be scorned.

* * *

**Tuesday, August 20th, 2030: It is more difficult, and calls for higher energies of soul, to live a martyr than to die one-Horace Mann.**

**

* * *

**

**Arkham Asylum Audio file Patient #10674 (Alias 'The Joker')  
**

**Attending Physician: Dr. Harlene Quintzel**

**Hitler. Stalin. Mao Zedong. The world calls them criminals, madmen, murderers…yet they, like all true genius, were merely ahead of their time. With their ambitious, innovative minds they conquered kingdoms, destroyed empires, brought their peoples through decades of forced progress and social revolutions-a Great Leap Forward…**

_You crossed the line first, sir. You squeezed them, you hammered them to the point of desperation. And in their desperation they turned to a man they didn't fully understand._

**Their great works are the cornerstones of the modern era. Terrible, yes. But **_**great.**_

_Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred. Just have to figure out what he's after._

**And my patient rightfully takes his place among them.**

_With respect, sir, perhaps this is a man that you don't fully understand._

**They told me that seeing him was the most horrible thing-that one look at his scars and you would know what you looked at was not a man but a beast, his hideous visage reflecting the madness lurking within-**

_What are you trying to prove? That deep down everyone's just as ugly as you?_

**I found him abysmally mundane. No more than a man with superficial, irreparable cosmetic damage. I was deeply disappointed.**

**Not in the man. In my profession.**

**Our culture is flawed. Because a man was made ugly he became ugly? His scars represent the horrors of his past, the failure of his parents, neighbors, community…treated with cruelty he has become cruel, a sociopath?**

**Imbeciles. Do they not see?**

_What do you believe in, huh? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?_

**One look into his eyes-**_**those eyes before mine still!-**_**one look tells the terrible, terrible truth: this man is not insane. Not an animal…not merely a mad man. He is much, **_**much**_** more than a man.**

_I believe whatever doesn't kill you only makes you…stranger._

**He...is an **_**idea.**_

**These scars were **_**self-inflicted**_**. A reminder of his devotion- Our society has lost touch with the old ways, the customs and traditions, the imagery and spirituality that have vanished with electricity and the atom bomb. Today we label it mental illness, habits of self-harm…**

_Well, you look nervous. Is it the scars? You want to know how I got 'em?_

**The old world called them **_**ritual. **_**His…a true religion. A religion of freedom…a religion of Choice.**

_Killing is making a choice. Choose between one life and another. But don't worry, I'm gonna tell you where they are…and that's the point, you'll have to choose._

**Self-immolation. Self-flagellation…It seems all the great doctrines have endured such rituals. Although not always widely proliferated, they were held in the highest of regards…**

_It's not about money, it's about leaving a message….everything burns!_

**So blind by our daily routine and our technology we have forgotten how to think. I have spoke with Milton's Satan, and have found him a rebel worthy of admiration and respect. He is damned nowhere, choosing retribution rather than recant…**

**He seeks for a Paradise that can never be Lost.**

_This city deserves a better class of criminal…and I'm gonna give it to 'em!_

**In fear, they cannot confront him with the truth. Because their flimsy, pathetic excuse for reality cannot hold up to the Truth. He was treated inhumanely and is become inhumane…the blame is not his. Or he is responsible…because every man is capable of what he has done.**

**They cannot label him criminal without destroying themselves…**

_You have all these rules and you think they'll save you!_

…**So they must label him insane.**

**Cowards. Fools. This is a rape of genius, the silencing of Mozart or Beethoven…a violation of First Amendment Rights.**

**His…is a religion of **_**choice. **_**All men are created equal…And equally capable of heinous acts. Of **_**choosing**_** heinous acts. There is no innate human goodness. Golding was right-take away the order of society, take away the rules and regulations imposed on us, and each of us is no better than the next. In the end, when put to the test, we will **_**choose**_** self over others. It is innate. It is undeniable. Millions of years of evolution cannot simply be undone. The human animal, though conscious, is no better than any other.**

_They need you right now, when they don't they'll cast you out like a leper. You see their morals, their code is a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show ya, when the chips are down, these uh, these civilized people…_

**It is, if anything, worse.**

…_they'll eat each other_

**I have heard the audio tapes of his interrogation. No false pretenses. No compromise. Pure and utter honesty. His idealism is deserving of praise.**

_Ya see I'm not a monster…I'm just ahead of the curve._

**Christians, Muslims, Jews-all ideologies and religions alike-have slaughtered thousands across the globe throughout their long histories. Many sects have now issued statements of apology or solidarity. They are lauded for their efforts of reconciliation. Those that have not…are scoffed.**

_People are dying, Alfred. What would you have me do?_

**And yet they alone remain fundamental. They alone remain grounded in their truth. Such men-such logic-deserves our utmost attention and investigation. They are downtrodden they are murdered, they are mocked, labeled fundamentalists, terrorists, religious fanatics…and yet in the face of judgment they will not recant.**

_Endure. Take it. They're hate you for it. But that's the point of Batman. He can be the outcast, he can make the choice that no one else can make…_

**Obsessive? Perhaps. But insane?**

…_The right choicc._

**Here I stand, I can do no other? The 95 Thesis is surpassed only by the Declaration of Independence, and the Constitution in logic and rational thought. It is a founding document-issuing in the era of the individual. Did Luther's pen script the words of a madmen? No. Facing death and persecution are only reminders of how strong one's faith-one's reality-stands against that which is Real. It is a poor faith indeed that at the end fails. Those who recant, who lose faith, whose morals and idealism are neither logically consistent, absolute, nor exclusive-**

_The Joker chose me!_

**-these are the men who are truly delusional, living in alternate reality.**

_Because you were the best of us! He wanted to prove even someone as good as you could fall!_

**Men whose minds-whose faith-break when shown the Truth.**

…_He was right._

**The strong-**_**the Sane**_**-press on. Nathan Hale. Indira Ghandi, William Tyndale, Simon Bolivar, Che Guevara, Martin Luther King Jr., Benazir Bhutto…**

_The bandit, in the forest in Burma, did you catch him?_

**Misunderstood. Misjudged. Maligned…Mad? Perhaps.**

_Yes._

**Yet they are martyrs.**

…we burned the forest down.

* * *

**Tuesday, August 20th  
**

**13:57 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

White.

The world was white, ash raining down like slowly falling snow, blinding and burning though his eyes swore it must be cold, he must be freezing not burning to death-

Deep breath. Mechanical respirator. Like Darth fuckingVader, clunking through this eerie winter, one oxygen-infused gasp at a time. It wasn't a brave new world. It was the echo of a dying scream. More like the apocalyptic ruins of a former one, an epiphanic glimpse of the nuclear horror that awaited his own. Barren and bleak, silent save his own gasps, his muted footfalls, the occasional curse, it stretched on for an endless eternity, scintillating glass like heavy sheets of ice sparkling on glaciers in the sun, deadly and foreboding, every step, every breath too loud, the threat of avalanche on every side…

This was, beyond question, the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

And yet even there will I fear no evil, for Thy rod and staff they comfort me. The hell did that come from, it'd been years since he'd been to church, even thought about scriptures. And yet here he was. The Good Shepherd, giving his life for his sheep, and for the One, forsaking ninety-nine…

And finally he was there. Draped in ash, buried in soot, blanketed in this horrible holocaust the vague, colorless shadow of a fire truck loomed before him as though through heavy fog.

He dropped to his knees. And began to dig.

* * *

**Four hours previously…**

**10:00 EST**

**Camp David**

"-PRC, the Soviets…Hell, even North Korea's made conciliatory statements."

President Geraldo Calderon shook his head tiredly. "And Iran?"

Over the telecom, the appropriate ambassador shrugged, sweating in the heat of the afternoon sun of Tehran. "Their government is playing this cautiously, sir. But so is the rest of the Middle East. We've seen support broadcasted by Al Queda and other Taliban and fundamentalist sectors…but no group is yet claming responsibility. And that scares the shit out of me, sir."

Geraldo sighed. "Thank you, ambassador." The man nodded his head, and the com screen blanked out. POTUS turned next to his SecDef and SOHC. "Please tell me you know something. Anything."

But those bastions of knowledge too, shook their heads in mounting confusion and despair. The former governor of New Mexico closed his eyes in resignation, not for the first time, not for the last, wishing he had never, ever taken the Democratic Party's offer of Presidential Nomination…

…but then again, it had been a governor, a governor and not a president who had been targeted by these unnamed, unknown terrorists.

The crime had been committed. The usual suspects rounded up and interrogated, but not a one of them was singing. So 47 year-old Geraldo Calderon, 4th generation Mexican immigrant, 49th President of the goddamn United States of America, arguably the most powerful, most well-informed man on the state of world affairs, sat bunkered in at Camp David under an elevated terrorist threat level of RED, doing what he had done 30 years ago when the Twin Towers had fallen.

…Praying to God for courage, for answers, for protection…and watching CNN.

* * *

**10:15 EST**

**Skylight Hotel**

"This is, this is Cameron Shaw, reporting live from the Skylight hotel." Shaw shouted into the microphone, while all around her buses and automobiles honked, patients were crying out in pain, medics hollering orders, families shouting the names of loved ones. "Emergency personnel are requesting family members remain at home, I repeat, we are requesting family members remain at home and attempt to locate their loved ones via the internet. Skylight has set up a special portion of their website GothamCitySkylight . com, that's GothamCitySkylight . com with no spaces, with the name of any patient transferred to this facility-"

"SARA!"

"MOM! DAD!" and suddenly a scrawny teenager cut in front of the camera, sprinting heedlessly across the crowded sidewalk, bony elbows shoving through the gathered throng to fling herself into the open, expectant arms of her weeping parents.

The scene was heart-wrenching, and the camera man swept over to the reunited family, displaying the intimate scene to over 800 million viewers worldwide. It was a touch of hope. Of life, of renewal in the midst of this tragedy…

But a bedraggled, exhausted, and angry twenty-five year old Cameron Shaw couldn't help but feel that this would only make things worse for the already crowded hotel…

…and she couldn't help but feel that no camera man would have dared interrupt a live broadcast if it had been Trisha Tanaka speaking.

* * *

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"How's that leg doin'?" Officer Eugene Bradley tore his eyes away from the TV to his elderly companion.

"Well, it's still broken." Fox stated mildly, just a hint of a smile on his twitching lips. "But it's manageable." He gestured with one tired hand to the elevated limb, still packed round with ice. "Anything from the military?"

Eugene shook his head. "No. But that's what concerns me. If they're coming after us, they'd be using encrypted signals-"

Fox shook his head wearily. "They're coming. No doubt about that, Mr. Bradley, they're coming. The only question left is when."

* * *

**Gotham City International Airport**

**Temporary HQ State National Guard/Department of Homeland Security**

"Colonel Root? We just received reports of a possible security violation with orders to investigate ASAP-" The private was cut off mid-sentence with several long strings of spit.

"You son of a bitch! This is a fucking war zone! I want our medics out there and I want it done yesterday!" Root's face had turned a marvelous shade of red, jaws twisted in an inhuman snarl. "We get help to these people and we do it NOW!"

_What the fuck was wrong with the world? FG trying to cover their ass again-they had enough of that with Katrina_-Let someone else play babysitter. He had a job to do.

In less than 18 hours, Colonel Julius Root would be forced to resign from his command, and would undergo a court marshal investigation that would find him guilty of defying direct orders. The Colonol would serve three years in a military institution.600 National Guardsmen that year-including the private-would opt not to renew their commitments, citing his unjust imprisonment as their primary objection. Many were only four years short of retirement benefits. Root would serve as acting commander of the Crisis in Gotham City for less than a day. In the time it took to lose his commission, his career, and his retirement, 2,237 lives had been saved.

…in his posthumous memoir _Civil Disobedience_, his only recorded regret would be snapping at the Private.

* * *

**10: 21 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

No news from Amy.

Her voicemail again, those cool, professional tones. Detective Aaron Lawless found himself dialing, again and again, just to hear the sound of her voice…

_Dialing, dialing, thumbs sore from punching the tiny numbers goddamnit Jimmy just pick up your phone-!_

Hell, had it just been yesterday? Calling the Kid over and over again-?

Blink back tears. Wipe your eyes. Be strong.

"_Amy Lawless, RN. Leave a message."_

"Hey babe." The Detective choked. "I love you."

* * *

**10: 27 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

It fucking figured.

Her husband, her _Aaron_ had called and she missed it in surgery. Missed it standing side by side to Chavez, helping him do the best job he could with the newest batch of critical patients but this one they had lost anyways. Dehydration. Crush syndrome. Septic shock. From the moment the woman had entered the OR the RN had marked her as a goner.

…she hated herself for being right.

Wearily she removed her elbow-length gloves. Diligently washed her hands. And then, only then, did she raise her now pink hands to her face and rub the greying circles under her eyes. Splashed her face. Blotted cool drops with rough paper towel. Looked to her phone again.

Aaron had called. Aaron was alive…and she needed to do rounds again. Had to be _strong._ Think of others before herself, before her own fucking family-

"Oh, shit!" She shouted, holding the OR door to keep from collapsing in fright. She had rounded the frame only to run straight into Bruce Wayne.

"Is the little girl alright?" She asked nervously, heart still in her throat.

The man smiled. "Yeah. She's…Gracie's fine. I just came to, uh, well, to _thank_ you."

She brushed dark hair from her face, lowered her eyes.. "It's my job, Mr. Wayne. You don't have to thank me."

_I never thanked you._

…_you'll never have to._

But it was so damn _good_ to be thanked. Appreciated. To know all the Hell you'd been through had been noticed. These people were downtrodden, weary. Losing faith. He shook his head. "No, Miss Lawless. I _do_."

Tears pricked those deep blue, bloodshot eyes. She rolled her head, gave a grimace. "You're a good woman-" He continued. But he was cut short by a sob. She was trembling now, small frame shaking, hair gently tossed by her denying head. "No." She whispered. "No I'm not. You have no idea what I've done-"

She was breaking down. Losing it. She was a woman, a stranger, but these were drastic times, exceptional times, the worst of times. So hesitantly, awkwardly, he moved to put a comforting arm around her-

But she stopped him with chapped, slender hands. "No." She whispered, still shaking her head, backing away slowly. "No." For Amy Lawless, RN, had made that mistake before. Turning to another man's arms in times of doubt and duress. And until this nightmare was over-until her life or marriage was over-she would not make that mistake again.

Bruce Wayne stood silent, shocked, watching the trembling woman stagger away down the hall. And he wondered, for the first time, if he had met someone with a secret even guiltier than his own.

* * *

**10: 31 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

…coffee.

Commissioner James Gordon took another long swig of the dark, steaming liquid. Tried to clear his mind of the day's events, just think straight for once since this crisis had started. But his mind was a whirlwind of horrible images, terrible fright, of the haze and weariness of the unknown. But he remembered _coffee_.

Lawless had told him a story about coffee. About coffee and purple shirts and the YWCA and he had laughed, laughed for the first time in many weeks…the last laugh he would laugh for many more…then Lawless' jibe about Paltron-

-and suddenly he knew what this day had been lacking. Direction. Decisiveness. Action. God, could Gotham use her cowgirl spirit right now…but she was gone. _Gone_. He hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye, apologize, make things right…

_The envelope fell with a heavy thud on her immaculate desk. Lt. Commissioner (MCU) Gwen Paltron didn't even raise her steely eyes, merely glanced at the envelope contemptuously and continued her report._

…_she, like him, could now recognize an official Internal Affairs summons by a mere cursory glance. And she, unlike him, could completely disregard it. "Goddamnit Paltron." He said._

_Her icy eyes finally rose from the computer screen. "Yes, Jim?"_

"_You know." She cast a cool stare to the waiting envelope._

"_I know."_

_He leaned against the desk, rolling his eyes in disbelief. "And-?"_

_She shrugged. "And."_

_He shook his head, frustration and anger mounting. He had sacrificed much for her, had wheedled and whined and goddamned compromised with Garcia on this for ages. Garcia had wanted an MCU to deal with major terrorist crimes, finding the missing Fear Night patients from Arkham, the majority of which had been labeled criminally insane for heinous crimes beyond Gotham's imagination…and he wanted to get rid of Paltron. IA had been trying to sack her ass for years. It had only been Harvey Dent's reputation-and recommendation-that had saved her._

"_You really think she'd be a good fit for the job?" He had asked the newly appointed DA with skepticism._

_But the lawyer had grinned mischeviously, handsome face stretched into that famous-and oh-so-charming smile. The man had charisma. Charisma and intensity. "Hell, no.. But if she's sitting on her ass behind a desk, it'd be pretty hard for her to be accused of recklessness, wouldn't it?" Recklessness, as IA said, was a polite euphemism for failure to obey a direct order, pre-emptive brutality and a rising body count of 'bad guys' that no one in Gotham would mourn…"Besides," Dent said softly, pain clouding his bright eyes, "she deserves another chance."_

_He sighed. Let his eyes wander around Dent's spacious office. She had another chance…and another and another…how many second chances did one person deserve-?_

_The lawyer was shrewd, and sad. "One more, Jim. At least one more."_

_The Lieutenant nodded. One more. It would always be one more. After what he had done to her, regardless of how ugly, how hard, how dangerous it became, he would always give her one more chance…_

…_some things could never be fully forgiven. Some things you just could never erase._

"_Are you sure you want to do this, Dent? Now? With this case just beginning? It was a gutsy move, you're lucky Surillo let you do it…but you've made a lot of people mad-"The DA and his assistant had finally done what GCPD should have been doing for years: bagging Gotham's criminals, regardless of profession or class. For too long he'd put up with partners and captains, IA directors and judges as corrupt as his hold partner, foul-mouthed Arnold Flass. No longer. _

_The younger man stood, paced the room, footsteps echoing eerily as they had so many years before. "It's now or never, Gordon. It's taken them a year to get around to Fear Night…but it's going to be ugly. If I back her, we can smooth this whole thing over. I'll put in a good word, and who knows? Six months from now she might be sitting behind a desk for the rest of her career."_

_Which meant retirement benefits, someday. And a whole hell of a lot less paperwork for Dent. The attorney had spent the last 9 years of his career in IA, spearheading WATCHDOG, and was single-handedly responsible for Paltron's continuing career in GCPD. Harvey Dent had been born with a silver tongue and a compassionate heart. And the woman whose case propelled him into the national spotlight would always hold a special place there._

_He was a good man. A noble man…and a man-perhaps the only man-who shared Jim Gordon's guilt and regret._

_He nodded. "Alright. I suppose if it's anyone's call, it's yours, Dent."_

_The DA leaned sat again, leaned back in the rich leather office chair with an impish grin. "Damn right it is."_

_Both chuckled._

"_You know Rachel bitched at me this morning, told me you were an old friend and to…'be nice' was the exact wording, I believe."_

_Gordon smiled tiredly. Thirteen years ago they had both been participants in one of the most controversial sex crime cases of the 21st century…and ADA Rachel Dawes had still only been the captain of the Debate Team at the most prestigious preparatory school in Gotham City. They would never be…friends. He was a Lt. in the force, keeping criminals off the streets…and Dent? Well, Dent had worked for that mysterious agency that was supposed to keep the criminals on the street from carrying a badge..._

_And both had to admit less victories than defeats._

_Dent sighed. "The shit's hit the fan, Gordon. We're in this. All of us." Garcia, Dawes, Surillo, Loeb…they were in it all right. And James Gordon found himself praying-not for the first time and not the last-that all would make it through alive._

_He sighed. "We'll pull through."_

_The younger man's eyes flashed. "Yeah. And maybe your 'friend' can help. Irradiated bills? Isn't that a little high tech for a simple cop?"_

_Lt. Gordon didn't even blink. "We have the support of various agencies-"_

"_Bullshit." Dent grunted. "I want to meet him."_

_Gordon was instantly wary. "Official policy is to arrest him on sight."_

"_I might know you, Gordon, but that doesn't mean I entirely trust you. I don't like that you lie. Go behind IA's back….I don't like that you have your own unit, Gordon. I don't like that it's full of officers I investigated in Internal Affairs-"_

_Jim sighed. "If I didn't work with cops you investigated while you were making your name at I.A. I'd be working alone. I don't get political points for being an idealist, I have to do the best I can with what I have."_

_Yes. GCPD was full of corrupt cops. And WATCHDOG was no exception…but Gordon was no fool. He had vouched for his men-and women, and he knew who he could trust. Lawless. Ramirez. Paltron. Montoya, Milton and Bradley were career cops, loyal to a fault…even if they weren't without others. And Allen was one of the most respected officers in the United States Police Force, Metropolis' golden boy. No…James Gordon knew who he could trust._

…_or thought he could. For District Attorney Harvey Dent, Gotham's White Knight, self-proclaimed savior and deliverer, had himself in madness and regret betrayed them. All of them. And any secrets he had concerning corruption in the GCPD had died with him that cold night. No, Dent was dead. And he himself had covered it up, covered it up with the Batman's help, watched Gotham's Dark Knight take his place in the shadows, the villain instead of victor. And it had been months, many long, thankless months, since he himself had shattered the glass of what Milton jokingly called 'the Bat-symbol', since GCPD headquarters had been re-christened, since that young woman he knew and respected so well met her death in that fiery hell..._

"_Goddamnit, Paltron! You've got another hearing with IA-"_

_She rose coolly. "Your point being?"_

"_My point being Dent's not around to bail you out anymore! Do you have any idea how many laws he had to circumvent to keep you on these past six years? I've pleaded for your job eight times, Paltron! Eight! And each time it's been harder but I've always had Dent to back me up-"_

_She scowled. "I don't see how Dent's death makes any difference. You've vouched for me before-"_

"_And I'm getting goddamned sick of it! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get you hired, let alone keep you on…and this promotion? I had to bend over backwards for Garcia to even consider-"_

"_And I haven't done anything I haven't done before."_ _Miguel Ramirez. MCU parking lot. Triple round burst to the chest. He was still unconscious in Methodist ICU…perhaps never to recover. The only good news-well, the good news was he would never lay a hand on Anna again. And she would get full custody of those kids…_

"_You shot a man. Practically killed him. You didn't shoot to disarm you gave a killing shot-"_

"_Man pulled a gun on two of your officers what the hell did you want me to do-"_

'_Didn't even stop to consider the consequences you just rushed in there guns blazing-"_

"_While you were still fucking thinking about what to do-"_

"_You never think you always act! Does taking a life mean nothing to you anymore-"_

"_I did it to SAVE lives, Jim!"_

"_I've had enough of your bullshit, Paltron! You're reckless, you're dangerous…and, and you don't give a damn about human life-!"_

_Lips part, sneer turns into a shuddering sigh, tears are below her she will not cry but her nose is running she takes a step away flinches as though struck…_

…_and you can't take it back._

"_Paltron…Paltron, I-"_

"_Fuck you." She gasps. "Fuck you, Jim. Fuck you-!"_

_You've backing away, she's terrifying when she's angry God knows how many men have died looking into those same irate eyes but she's not that heartless she wouldn't but you backed up anyways she can smell that unconscious fear and it brings out the ugliest hatred in her…_

…_you know as well as anyone that actions speak louder than words._

_A sudden crash. She's thrown her desk over, wood cracking computer crashing acrid scent of sparks outlets unplugged papers floating everywhere-_

"_Damn you, Jim! Goddamn you Jim-"_

_Then the door slammed open, her mouth still twisted in that choking scream, teeth barred across that desk, muscles taunt, ready to spring-_

_A young man stood in the doorframe, pale and wide-eyed in shock at the scene. "What the fuck do you want?" Paltron snapped._

_Connolly. Lawless' rookie partner. He blinked, swallowed nervously. "I, I heard raised voices-"_

_Raised voices. No shit. His dark eyes flickered back and forth between them. Small, whispered doubt: "I..I…d-did he _hurt_ you?"_

_Not physically, no. But he had. Wounded her deeply. Perhaps permanently. He turned back to her. "Let's…let's talk about this later. Just…just forget I brought it up-" He mumbled._

"_Get out. Get the fuck out!" She shrieked, and he didn't hesitate. There was no point in discussing this now. Nor ever. One of his shoulders brushed by the young man in passing, still standing there, uncertain. "Both of you!"_

_Connolly started skittishly, and the door slammed in his milk-white face._

"_Mr. Gordon…" The boy whispered. "What did you say to her?"_

_What had he said? He remembered it. Remembered it like it was happening now: "I am, convinced, in light of these evidences, that Officer…that she, that the defendant, my partner, Officer Guinevere Paltron, returned to the house on Decmember 8th, kidnapped the boy from his remaining parent, then proceeded to take him back to her apartment where she…abused him, before delivering him to Emergency Services personnel at Gotham Memorial Hospital."_

_He turned, couldn't quite meet the young man's accusatory stare. "Nothing she wanted to hear."_

_She'll never forgive you. She'll never forget. You took her life. Took her reputation…took that goddamned little boy. And you can never ask for forgiveness for what you did or what you've done. She'll never give it to you. Your trust nothing but pity, friendship nothing but guilt and if there is one thing she cannot stand it's pity._

…_not even from you._

Staring at his reflection in the dark water between his hands, he found he despised it. He rose. Poured the rest down the drain. Sometimes reflection brought clarify of mind…but years on the field had taught that at others, after times of grief and loss, a moment alone could only make things worse.

This was one of those times.

* * *

**10: 37 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"_Neeurgh._" Eugene Bradley stated to the world at large.

His elderly companion was instantly alert. "Mr. Bradley?"

The officer shrugged sheepishly. "Oh, didn't mean to wake you. But I've had just about enough of this waiting around shit. I feel so damn useless."

Fox smiled. "Well, you could get this old man another cup of coffee."

Eugene shook his head. "Why? You wanna be awake and alert when the Feds or whoever comes for us?"

"FBI?" Fox asked, taking the proffered Styrofoam cup, and sipping gratefully. "No, Mr. Bradley, this goes well beyond the jurisdiction of the FBI."

The officer sat, leaning on the edge of his seat, intrigued. "No shit?"

Fox nodded to the blackened monitors of the EMF machine, now still and silent. "The United States military owns the contract for that machine, Mr. Bradley."

The technician whistled, impressed. "We ain't in Kansas anymore, To-to."

Lucius Fox winced, shifting in his chair. "No, indeed, Mr. Bradley, no indeed."

* * *

**10: 41 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"Coffee?" The billionaire asked gently.

"You'd be my hero." James' muffled voice came from the hospital bed where she lay cuddled next to Gracie's sleeping form. The young girl's shaven head was swaddled in bandages, but her color had returned, and her small chest rose peacefully up and down, up and down in a relaxing, regular rhythm. Bruce Wayne had never watched a child sleep before, and there was something…something so…

…_spiritual_ was the best word he could think of. But perhaps, he thought on reflection, taking on last look at the woman and child from the already open door, there were some things in life you couldn't describe with words at all.

* * *

**10: 43 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"You alright, Jim?" A familiar gravelly voice growled.

The Commissioner raised his eyes, attempted a wry grimace but couldn't muster the strength of heart. Who knew in how many hours time what government agency would bang through the doors and demand he take responsibility for what they'd done? Who knew if he'd ever see his family again? See Barb, Barb the one love of his life he'd pursued since that day in seventh grade he'd first caught her eye and she had smiled shyly back…

…and James Jr. Little BB. God, he needed them…

And they needed him. If he was anyone else, if he was any other man he would be home right now to hold and comfort them. God knows how many times his family, his own family had been the ones left alone in fear and doubt. And Jim Gordon didn't know if it made him more or less of a man that he could leave them so. Wasn't it a man's first duty to the ones he loved-?

"I don't know, Lawless." He finally stated. "I, there, there's a lot of things I'd like to tell my family. Things I regret. Things I'll miss. That I love them. Always have. That too often I've let this job get in the way of making sure they know."

That strange look was back in the Detective's eyes. "They'll be alright, Jim."

"God, I just…I feel so guilty. But I suppose you of all people would understand-" Hadn't the three of them made the decision together? Himself, the Batman, and Dent? "All this time I've felt responsible. Surillo. Loeb. _Dawes_, she was so young…and Dent. Harvey Dent." The Commissioner shook his head. "And now Paltron too."

Hazel eyes winced in pain. "You don't know that."

Gordon shook his head. "Lawless…I'd like to hope as much as the next person-God knows I, I left too much unsaid-" Tears pricked his earnest eyes. "Never told her I was proud of her. Never asked forgiveness for what I did...but she was right there, Lawless. She was right there when Richard's convoy exploded and, and even if they survived that she was in the plaza itself-"

35,000 people gathered in the plaza proper. More ringing the streets for blocks upon blocks. And the survivors? Well, they were men like Lucius Fox and his two granddaughters. Lucky….and late. And with the collapse of the Fountainhead and the structural compromise of a dozen other buildings…the epicenter was still widely untouched. People there would be buried. Buried beneath twenty feet of smoldering rubble. And they had been for nearly 24 hours.

"You shittin' me?" Lawless asked gently. "Life or death situation, impossible odds? Hell, the only person I'd _count on_ surviving would be her. She's gotten out of some pretty deep shit before." The Detective sat down across from him, hands on his knees. "And if the last 24 hours have taught me anything, it's to focus on what you know. To wait. Pray. Hope for the things you don't. But you can't dwell on them, Jim." He said with finality. "You just can't."

…no, no you couldn't, Commissioner James Gordon agreed. They'd eat you alive.

* * *

**10: 47 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

What's wrong, Bats? Too afraid to come out and play in the daylight? No, no you're trying to fool me, you naughty baddie-batty-Bat! Trying to test my uh, faith. You want me to think you've called it quits. Hung up the cloak for good, have you? No, no you haven't. You CAN'T. And you can't fool me.

We're alike, you and I. Some things lost just can't be…_recovered_. Some _scars_ just go too deep to _heal_. Some dead bitches just can't go without being _avenged_, or whatever the hell reason you say you're doing this for…

Really Bats, this is below you. _She_ was below you. High class cunt with a misplaced sense of morality that just didn't quite extend to not fucking her boss? Tsk, tsk. One day you'll see. You'll see I did you a favor. Got rid of the one thing that gave you hope and happiness and love and all that other crap it is that the wee mortals want and so much misery besides. She made you miserable, Bats. Miserable. She chained you, caged you, she nearly destroyed you…and I did what any true friend would do. I set you free. Released your bonds. I, and I alone cut your last string. I took your one damn rule and backfired it in your face…

Back_fire_. Ha-! The world's a sick, sick joke-and that one was unintentional. But it's a joke. It's all a joke, Bats. And you'll see. Someday you'll see. You're a puppet with no strings, just like me! And a puppet without strings becomes something else entirely…but you keep grabbing for them and trying to tie them back on…it's-I'll be nice-fucking pathetic, really. But don't worry, Bats. I forgive you. I'll preach to you 'til I'm blue in the face from talking to your thick, cowled skull or because you finally grow the balls to blow my fucking brains out.

But you won't, darling. You won't. We're destined to do this forever, we're legend and myth, prophets and martyrs, and we're been fighting since before either of us ever really _existed_. We're not men, you and I. No, no we're ideas. We're gods. The yen and yang. Equal and opposite. I'm logic. And you're sniveling little sentimentality, still convinced in the good of the people and the sanctity of civilization. But we both want the same thing: justice. True justice, and personal responsibility.

…but if people were really _good_, if civilization was really _civilized_, they wouldn't need little old you, now would they?

And we're willing to do whatever it takes-well, almost whatever it takes, Bats-to get them to see. To understand. To _choose._ But until you're willing to sacrifice, uh, everything…you're not a prophet, Bats. You're only pretending. You're just…another _politician._ I'm a prophet. And you're my disciple. And I will teach you, refine you. I can't force you or them to _change_ but I can force you to _choose…_

…again and again and again-!

Equal and opposite, did I say? And yet we're alike. I know you, Bats. And we're so alike, you and I, so very much _ali-kuh_…

…I just need to hear you say it.

* * *

**10:53 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Smoke and ash still belched from the sky. There was a deep, steady roar like the distant crashing of waves upon the beach, magnified a thousand times until the air itself was vibrating with resounding force, echoing against the buildings, punctuated by the treble of tinkling glass as plate windows cracked and came tumbling in deadly sheets to the ground below. The ground was shaking, shaking, groaning in anticipation as a volcano before its eruption, threatening to spew molten lava thousands of feet into the air above. And everywhere, in the shaking, the groaning, the unsteady lilt of paces there was an eerie, underlying hum…

It wasn't a fault line. It was far, far too mechanical for that, Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, Fire Marshall, thought. But the cause of the Legacy 'bombing' as the news channels had so naively put it was now the least of his worries. The Legacy had Fallen, Old National was gone, a parking garage had crushed a retreating ambulance en route to Methodist, and the Fountainhead had been the most recent to go. Glass wasn't the only thing falling. Seismic sensors couldn't get anything close to an accurate read-there was that strange, throbbing pulse as though a sleeping demon had been roused under earth, enraged to find that a city had been built upon its place of slumber. But even if these machines were momentarily worthless, one could rely on an age-old principle that needed no technology at all: geometry.

Buildings should stand as a 90 degree angle from the ground. Any more, any less…well, the tower of Pisa wasn't famous for being fucking _old._

Victims were still being found. Crushed. Burned. Dehydrated. Dead. The survivors were getting fewer and fewer, and as bits and pieces of leaning buildings began to slough off to the streets below, Yosef was left with little choice.

It was Firemen who climbed the Towers on 911. Firemen, doing their jobs, following orders, who were trapped and crushed when the buildings finally fell. Yosef's parents were Lebanese. Immigrants. His father drove a taxi cab, his mother stayed home and raised himself and seven sisters. His father had been shot the next day, shot for being an Arab, for being a Muslim, for being 'a Godfuckingterrorist', his father had quoted. But he must not be angry, he must forgive. Must pity their narrow-mindedness and ignorance, his father insisted, for believing any god could desire vengeance of his followers, not compassion. Yosef was twenty-two, twenty-two and his name would be placed on the Terrorist Watch List simply because it didn't sound American. But the United States was a melting pot, who craved the tired, hungry, sick and poor…there had been many, many others here in Gotham City who had foreign names, the Chinese sector, the growing amount of Japanese businessmen and their families, many Indians, Italians, Russians, Mexicans and a host of immigrants both legal and non pouring in from the Central and South Americas. But it was men like his father, families like his family, places of worship like his mosque, not the great Catholic churches nor a small, Buddhist shrine that faced prejudice and persecution.

At twenty-two years old, holding his father's hand in the hospital, Yosef had watched the television, sick at heart for the loss and grief a city and a nation-his nation-had suffered. And he saw those men, those heroes, those firemen, and something told him deep down inside that those were patriots. Men who loved their country. Men whose honor and allegiance would never be doubted. And Yosef was American. Muslim, yes, but _American._ And he made the decision to clear his family's name and honor, to take up his patriotic duty, to ensure his own children and wife would never have to endure what his mother had, that no one would look down upon them for their face, name, or religion. He would prove to these ignorant masses, misguided by terror and distrust, that his indeed was a God of mercy and peace. So Yosef became a fireman. Worked as a public servant for Gotham City for nearly 30 years. He was 51, not only a fireman but the Marshall of the Firemen, and damned if he was going to be called a terrorist or a murderer, damned if he was going to let American servicemen and women die just as careless and enraged as those young jihadists crashing those planes…

Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, Fire Marshall of Gotham City, made an executive decision. Too many innocent people here had died already. Too many of his teams had been crushed by the weight of falling debris, sliced into shreds by plate glass taller than a man. Policemen, paramedics, Red Cross volunteers and National Guardsmen, all courageous, all giving, all dead. The plaza was burning, filled with smoldering debris in places over three storeys tall. The roads leading in and out were filled with fleeing victims, unearthed like eerie, terra cotta soldiers, rushed away to safety and rescue. Any victims left in the plaza proper…

Yosef wiped his bloodshot eyes. Thought of twisted, charred corpses, smears of blood and bits of bone. 35,000 people in the plaza proper, more lining the streets, ringing the parade for blocks upon blocks…

…The poor bastards never had a chance. Yet if by some miracle there was anyone left out there, any one still alive…well, may Allah, Ar-Rahím, Al-Muhaymin, have mercy on their souls.

He made the call. Over every emergency broadcast channel, the message went out that Gotham City Plaza was being sealed off. There would be no more ill-fated rescue attempts. There would not be another Twin Towers. Not when he, Yosef, a muslim, an American and a _patriot_, had the power to prevent it.

* * *

**10: 55 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Coffee. Sugar. Creamer?

…_check_. Bruce Wayne walked purposefully back to the hospital room, but the nurse's station distracted him. That nurse, Amy Lawless, was sitting there charting frantically. Methodist was still trying to make bed room for critically wounded patients. Push al those 'stable' and….well, 'almost stable' wasn't a precise medical term but no one was bothering with micturation and physician check outs. If you weren't bleeding, in need of surgery, blood, or advanced life support, you were going to Skylight. No exceptions.

"Coffee?" He asked gently.

"Thank you," She said, taking the hot beverage gratefully, allowing herself to relax ever so slightly, sit back in the chair and take a few deep drinks and a few deep breaths.

Bruce couldn't imagine the stress the medical personnel were under. He himself used to deal with life and death scenarios every night…but he had signed up for them. These people, these ordinary extraordinaries…the guilt and strain was eating them alive.

He sighed. Watched the RN return to her work, and turned to begin the second long trek to the Med/Surge floor's galley for another cup of coffee.

…but something held him back.

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Gordon?" Renee Montoya peeped around the corner.

Aaron Lawless watched as the haggard Commissioner looked up from deep thought. "Yes?"

"Phone. It's the Mayor." She said apologetically, white teeth flashing against her dark face. Gordon rose and followed her. The Detective sighed, suddenly alone, said a silent prayer of thanks that Garcia had awoken, and leaned back into the padded leather chair.

Pain in his right buttock. He sat up, fished around the pocket of his uniform for the offending object: a phone.

The _Kid's_ iphone, a Christmas present to replace the unreliable piece of junk Jimmy'd been toting. Jimmy's phone, still smelling of coffee. The screen was cracked now, coated in dust, parts of the casing chipped. He gripped it tightly, sudden pang in his chest to know he had carried it with him this entire time.

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

There. Over her shoulder. Subconscious reflex. Mind playing tricks. You only saw it because you were thinking of him.

But some tiny, hidden part of him doubted . Some part of him needed to know for sure. Bruce Wayne stared intently at the screen over Lawless' thin shoulder, and through the curtain of her dark hair he read PENNYWOR-

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

That goddamned purple shirt. If only the Kid hadn't worn it he'd have his cell on him. Someone could've called. He could've called and they might have found him. But Jimmy Connolly's phone had been drowned and dead, forgotten in his pocket since yesterday morning.

No one could have called the Kid. No one could have found him no matter how hard they tried.

"Christ," Lawless breathed. But even he didn't know if that name was a prayer…or a curse.

* * *

**10:56 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Bruce blinked. Squinted harder. PENNYWORTH, AL-the rest was obstructed by the RN's small frame, busily jotting notes on at least 10 different patients.

All but this: _Caucasian male. Age 67. Sudden cardiac arrest.

* * *

_

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Then he remembered. With a jolt he remembered an endless night like this day so long ago standing on a ferry deck with a thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate in the engine room. _Amy crying over the phone pleading for him to say it would be alright but it wouldn't it wouldn't you know it won't you won't lie you ask to talk to Ian tell him you love him he's silent doesn't talk doesn't quite know what to think she's back on sobbing, whimpering begging tells you not to hang up to stay on the line but you whisper I love you, babe and shut the cell need a moment of silence need a moment alone you have to prepare yourself to meet God._

_If there is a God. If someone who would leave your wife a widow and your son fatherless was worthy of being called God…_

_She's silent. Staring out over the waters. Hasn't moved. Hasn't spoken. Your watch reads thirty seconds till midnight…more or less, give or take however many microseconds the detonator is off by._

_Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine now. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Pain. Guilt. "Paltron, I…I didn't even ask if there was anyone you needed to call-"_

_Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three…_

_She turns. Face blank, phone held limply in her hand. "You're here." She says. "There's no one else for me to call."Silence. Pull her to your chest. Stare out at the city together, lapping lazy waters scintillating skyscrapers like the sparkle of a million stars your watch is slowing seconds, heart beats last eternity in the final moments til midnight. Her crystal eyes close. She is tense, unbelieving. You cling to her, press her tightly. Too terrified to die alone. Five seconds til midnight. You're not ready. Don't want to die, don't want to leave a wife a kid alone behind all alone-_

_Three seconds til midnight. Two seconds til midnight…you close your eyes. And think of Amy…_

...Paltron.

_Paltron_ had a phone. Her phone. She had it on her when the Legacy fell.

"_You're here. There's no one else for me to call."_

Paltron's phone. And Lawless knew he was the only one she ever called. The only one who would have thought to call her…and he hadn't. The Fountainhead had fallen, it was far too late.

* * *

**10:57 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Fear.

Amy Lawless nodded her thanks and stood up. Bruce smiled nervously, watched her walking down the hall…

…then crept around the desk, perused the file from a closer view to calm nis mounting dread. It was a coincidence. A mistake. A different Alfred Pennyworth…

It couldn't be his Alfred. No, no in a city the size of Gotham there could be thousands of Pennyworths, perhaps a hundred Alfreds…

And Alfred wasn't even at the Legacy. He was safe in the Penthouse, right where you left him he was _safe…

* * *

_

**GCPD Tracking Room**

He knew it wouldn't do any good. He knew it was too late. Knew even if she was alive he had no chance of rescuing her-

But he had to know for sure. Had to try. He speed-dialed her number, hoping to God a nurse in an ER somewhere would hear and answer, calm his fears…they had located hundreds, if not thousands of victims through Wayne Enterprises. He prayed, cursed, pleaded that his former partner, that his son, might be among them-

* * *

**10:58 **

**Gotham United Methodist**

**PENNYWORTH, ALFRED Age: 67 Gender: Male Code Status: FULL**

**Social Security Number: ________**

But that had been left blank. Why? Patient unconscious at time of delivery? Yes, yes that must be it no one walked around with their social security card on them…and an unconscious man couldn't just rattle of a 9 digit number, could he?

…Unless there was a simpler explanation, Bruce thought with dread. Unless this man didn't have a social security number. Unless this man wasn't a citizen. Had a working Visa. Had lived in the USA for over thirty years now but still considered himself to be a citizen of the UK…

Papers, charts, chair overturned the Batman was sprinting soaring slamming through the crowded hallway shouting _movemovegetoutofmyway-!

* * *

_

**10:59 GCPD Tracking Room**

Milton speaking over the comm, Gordon and Montoya talking lowly, Allen's deep voice, Anna's soft tones he heard none of it not the click of fingers on a keyboard the steady thrum of electric lights the distant shriek of singing sirens…No, he had ears only for this. The phone was ringing, a dull, steady _brrrr _punctuated only by the sound of his heavy heart-

* * *

**Gotham United Methodist**

The door snapped from hinges a man was yelling the Batman was yelling let out a bellow like a dying bull. "ALFRED-!"

* * *

**11:00 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

A noise. A light. Small hand moving in the darkness. Five miles away, Detective Aaron Lawless heard silence as the line picked up...then whispered words from the last voice he ever expected to hear:

"…h-hello-?"

Under 35 thousand tons of the Legacy's glass, steel, concrete and smoldering dust, twenty-two year old Jimmy Connolly was Alive. Awake. Afraid...

...but no longer _Alone.

* * *

_

**11:01 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Detective Aaron Lawless staggered nearly to his knees, and instantly all eyes were on him, staring in wonder and in doubt.. "Kid?" He asked sharply. "_Jimmy-!"_

_"Dad-!"_ The voice was tinny and shrill. _"Daddaddad please dad-!"_

"Jesus, Jimmy! Jimmy, Kid where are you? Where did they take you? Paltron-she's with you where the Hell are you guys-!" Jim Gordon stood, staring at the Detective in wonder. Montoya and Crispus Allen cast worried glances,

_"Don't hang up please please please dad I, I-"_

"Jimmy, Jimmy-!" It's not right, no bustling in the background no sirens no static just cold dead silence fear growing in your gut,"Where the hell are you, Kid?"

_"I...I don't know I can't see-"_

…and instantly he knew. "Milton!" The Detective snarled, "I need a trace on a cell and I need it fucking now! Get Bradley working on it too-!"

"I need you to hold the phone away from your face, Kid. Use the light. Tell me what you see-"

_"I, I, don't leave me-!" _Silence, gasping, panting breathing, squeal of terror-

"Kid-!"

_"Dead people, there's, there's people and they're, they're dead all dead everyone's dead-" _

And he's crying crying crying like your son your son's crying he's alive he's scared he's terrified outofhisfuckingmind and you want to hold him hold him like you've done through nights of nightmares and memories of years and years of abuse but you don't even know where he is you want to hold him fight those fears away but you're god knows how far away and nothing scares you like not being able to reach out and comfort him you only stand there helpless emasculated no worse feeling in the world-

'Paltron?" The Detective asked sharply, "Paltron? Kid, is she with you?"

_"I...I think so..."_

"Is she alive?"

_"I, I, I don'tknow! She'sstuckshe'ssostill she's not moving, I...they're all dead all of them all those people a-an-and the little kids they're all dead aren't they-oh God-!"_

"Okay. Okay." Take a deep breath. Push on. "You're gonna fine. It's gonna be okay, you hear? You just…you'll be alright, okay?"

Scared little voice. Shrill and gasping. Aaron Lawless' heart sank further in his chest. He knew this wasn't Detective Jimmy Connolly…and that meant it was that little boy, the one who still woke screaming from his sleep during night terrors, the one he'd held through the tears and the shaking, the boy whose frightened face looked all the world like an Angel weeping, gave those goddamned _Stop the Violence_ ads the horror of a holocaust survivor…

"What do you see? Can you see anything? Kid, I need you to look around. I need you to look around like we did on that Meroni-family case, remember? When you found the cigar butt the FBI missed and we busted Gaetano's ass for accessory to murder?" Their first case, the Kid's opportunity to live up to Allen's glowing letter of recommendation, and he'd passed with flying colors. "You remember that?"

There was silence for a long moment_. "Yeah,"_ came the panted reply.

"Yeah?" The Detective prodded desperately. "Alright. Alright, Kid, you have to walk the grid. I need you to walk me through the grid. Step by step. Just like the fucking academy. Tell me what you see."

Silence. Sharp intake of breath, scratchy and weak. "_I see…I see nothing. I can't see anything I-" _

"Hold the phone away from your face," Lawless coaxed, near pleading as Milton worked furiously to trace the location of the call…but police standard equipment had only so much resolving power. NSA could've told GPS location down to the microsecond, but the lead flashing on the GCPD screen in bold red letters was only a glaring dead-end: Legacy Plaza. But a three block radius would hardly narrow his search.

"_It's a truck!"_ the boy's tinny voice cried. _"It's a truck a truck the red truck-"_

"A truck? You see a truck-?"

_"We're under a truck-"_

Under a truck. Shielded from debris. The only way they'd made it this far…"What truck?"

_"You know, the, the _red_ truck-"_

"No, I don't know what red fucking truck-!" But suddenly he stopped, shocked and silent. _It's July 4th. And you're holding Ian Amy couldn't come the parade's going by sirens whirring lights flashing in an hour or two there'll be fireworks and the boys look at you smiling wildly hands over their ears the FD goes by water tanker by water tanker and your three year old son turns to you and says "The red trucks, Dad! I hate those guys!" The whole department is laughing, laughing giving your little guy high fives he's too damn young to understand and you're blushing goddamn pink-_

One hand held the phone to his ear, the other grabbed the remote rewound _car recintegrating billowing smoke disappearing to a pinprick a snapshot a picture a pause in time when all those people were still alive._..Tanaka's smiling face and there they were Paltron and Connolly standing in the background long shot camera panning a flash of red of brilliant, fire-engine red. "Milton! Forget it! I need a listing of all FD equipment issued for the parade, and GPS locations for all of them!"

Lawless ran to the door, still on the phone. "Wait!" Fred Milton called, standing and sending his headphones flying. "Lawless, what the _HELL_ are you doing?"

The door swung open, and the Detective looked back for an agonizing, apologetic second, staring not at his questioner but into the eyes of Commissioner James Gordon.

"I'm going after my son."

The door swung shut. Four pair of eyes turned questioningly to Gordon, only to find their leader had no answers. It was both a statement and a plea, the Commissioner finally decided. But a plea for _what-?

* * *

_

**11:10 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Enraged.

The momentary panic was gone, the sighs and sobs of relief long since subsided, the terror and horror he had not felt since watching his father twinging in the throes of deep shock, since the hand that was caught upon his mother's pearls pulled the trigger with sudden solemnity, and everything that was his mother fell with agonizing slowness to the pavement below-

No, the rage was back. The Batman was back. The Batman was here, as he had been, all those years ago in the courtroom, staring into the eyes of the man who had murdered his parents, wishing, waiting, willing him to be released so he could finally be at peace. Joe Chill would be freed, freed from protection and imprisonment, and he would die by his hand.

"_This just in, emergency officials have closed off the plaza, I repeat, the plaza is now sealed off due to increasing concerns of structural stability. Five buildings have fallen in wake of the Legacy, and at least six more at considered compromised-"_ the voice of Cameron Shaw came tinny and muted through the television speakers.

But trembling in sorrow and shock, Bruce Wayne heard only one thing: Legacy. He stared at the man who had been his father's most faithful servant, who had served for years as both surrogate father and mother to a lonely adolescent, a former soldier who had never given up, never left a man behind, who had only and always had faith in a young man who had repeatedly disappointed him.

No more. He was drunk with a righteous anger, glutted with a desire for vengeance, for justice, for punishment, for blood-! Unfeeling, unthinking, unknowing, he left the room, the hall, the hospital, a burning mantra like a scorching scream growing louder and louder with every heart beat until it consumed him. Bruce Wayne was no more, and it was the Batman who repeated over and over and over again: _I made a promise on the grave of my parents that I would rid this city of the evil that ended their lives._

_A promise. To rid. This City. Of Evil. That Ended. Lives. _

_Promise. To Rid. This City. Evil. Lives…

* * *

_

**11: 13 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Hours. In the shadows of the late Gregory Morrison's ward room the man known as the Joker crouched in the alcove of the door. Sure, the floor was uncomfortable…_but all the better to scare the hell out of ya with, my dear._

But he could wait. Wait for the Batman. For the Batman he could wait forever…

…but forever was a very long time. And waiting could get so…_boring._ His plan-his genius plan-had failed even in all its cleverness, but its failure was so much more… en-ter-_tain-_ing than its success could ever have been. Because now he had a puzzle to solve. A puzzle. Like a game.

…all the world's a stage. One giant production. And art reflects life, life reflects art, and art reflects life reflecting art reflecting life…But if you looked closely enough, if you knew where to hmm…look, you'd find the _strings_…and that was the game of course! All the world's a stage and these pathetic little Gothamites were just the puppets therein. But he wasn't the puppeteer, oh no, not that arrogant-wasn't sure he believed in one, either-but he was a rebel, a puppet with no strings-or better yet one who'd _cut_ and burned them-

Yes. Yes _this_ was the game. God and Satan, playing checkers over Job…No, no this was a _different_ game. A _better _game. Where God was make believ-_vuh_ but people still liked to blame Satan for all the shit in their lives instead of, uh, _wa-king up_ to realize that all their problems were caused by themselves-!

…No, no instead they went ahead and blamed mom-my and dad-dy and everyone else on the fucking planet back generations and generations because some kike bastard (make that the uh, _father_ kike bastard) of so-called psycho-_tic-_analysis said so?

He'd heard some b_aaaad_ jokes before. But this one, this one took the hmmm, ca_ke_. No, uh, this one took the whole damn _sweet shop_…and probably ate the fucking _baker, _too_._

And even then they were sooo weak. So bor-ring. Too willing to take a hundred and fifty years of psychobabbling bullshit at _face_ value, too complacent with their electricity and mass media their computers and their ipods to learn to think…

And you know what the problem with faces is, don't you? DON'T YOU? _Faces_…can be chang-ed. All those things these pathetic, Hobbes-ian creatures with their short and brutish lives, all their beliefs were only skin deep. Too weak, too stupid, too unfeeling and glutted with their constant barrage of instant satisfaction to reach out and grasp the Darwinism they so mindlessly proclaimed.

_Cause you can't have it both ways, folks. Ya can't shirk personal responsibility without blamin' the other guy. And if you're gonna blame him…if it's reeeally his fault and there's no God-duh to stop ya…_

…_why the fuck don't you blow his goddamn head off?_

What's stoppin' ya? What's. Stoppin'. Ya.

_That, THAT_ is the _question_. The question for which the answer was so elegantly simple:

…Nothing.

He'd show them. Show all of them. But especially whatever uh, mob-fools or him-hawing hooligans thought to capitalize on his hmm…re-pu-_ta_-tion.

_Sorry, boys. A martyr only dies for his own causes. But I'm…only happy to oblige you! Ya wanna die for something? Pick a cause, any cause, cause you're dying. Oh, yes, you're dying. And I'm a man of my word!_

And that elicited only the tiniest little giggle from the shadows. So, shrouded in sinister silence broken only by the slimy sound of smacking lips, the Joker began to think

How could anyone else have known?

…and _know_-ing, who would want to take his little _fireworks_ and turn them into a uh, _atom bomb?

* * *

_

**11: 23 EST**

**Situation Room, The Pentagon, Washington DC  
**

"As you can see we have increased activity from the Soviets, Iran is glowing hot, and PRC's pushing aerial drills as close to Taiwan as they can."

"Chink bastards." POTUS snarled via telecom. Without a doubt, the twenty-first century had inherited the problems of the last. The Castro's were long dead but communism still crippled Cuba, Hong Kong might be part of China but Tibet sure as Hell didn't want to be, and he'd grown sick of playing Good China, Bad China and where in the fucking world was the new Dhali Lama. No Soviet leader had ever stood under anything remotely resembling the Nuremburg trials, and even though Stalin and his successors had killed more than Hitler's or Mao's ever did, that great Iron Curtain Reagan had dispelled had descended again to the North and East, casting an eerie, solemn shadow, looming and ominous. Mother Russia still had Nukes. The Chinese had Nukes. The goddamned North Koreans, the Iranians…and his homeland was still the land of the free and the home of the Great Satan.

The UN had been, and would remain, simply a sorry, silly shadow of the League of Nations. But he was no Wilson, no FDR. His century had inherited the plagues of the last, and sitting here where 48 other Presidents of the United States of America had sat, he couldn't help but wonder if in some spirit of spite they had let the world run amuck on purpose.

If I have seen further than others it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants, Newton had said. But none of his predecesors, those men both great and dangerous, could possibly have foreseen that in their sincerity for security, their pandering for votes, their compromises and trade agreements that in the first year of its untimely infancy, this century would surpass their plagues by far, exacerbating every long unsolved global crisis. For September 11th, 2001 hadn't changed the face of a city, a building, and a Pennsylvania field… it had changed the face of the world.

"We've had an extreme fluctuation in chatter from the Middle East."

Middle East. Sure as hell, breeding terrorists and imams who weren't quite terrorists but instilled enough hatred amongst their peoples they may as well have been. To Geraldo Calderon, that made sense. But what about these other regimes? The ones who weren't exactly allies but weren't outright enemies instead, who had nothing to gain and everything-trade sanctions, disaster aid, UN membership-to lose by arousing suspicion or even animosity from the American people? Sending condolences and public statements of solidarity meant nothing compared to a China on Taiwan's doorstep the moment her protectorate had an internal crisis of her own…Calderon had been governor of California. Dealt with economic crisis, the poverty level, increasing unemployment, unrest over immigration, both illegal and non, education reform, health care, gay rights, the importance of a tightly held budget…but internal affairs was only half of the Presidency, and no amount of preparation on the home front could ever compensate for his inexpertise in foreign affairs.

"But why the upset? Why the sudden mobilizations?" POTUS asked tiredly, and for a moment the room went silent, a silence such as had not been heard since Old Ike and the Manhattan project, that flinching moment of dread, wonder, guilt, relief oh God what have we done as the _Enola Gay _broadcasted half a world away that her mission had been a success…and for a moment, like that long moment, no one dared move nor speak. Then-

"Isn't it obvious, Mr. President?" SecDef asked weakly. "The last two times the United States was attacked, we went to _war_."

* * *

**11: 24 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Wanton killing. No heed for collateral…Not his style. Nobody in their right mind would believe it was him…but hell, these Gothamites weren't in their right minds to begin with, were they? And he of all people knew what a little uh, _fea_r could do to ya…

…unless he broke out the same day. Unless even the most rational and logical objective and unbiased observers could make no other claim. This…this whole thing-

…was an elaborate _set-up._

That was it. Someone knew about his plan, that punk latino pipsqueak Jesus _Gonnagetmygutsrippedout_ wasn't smart enough to think to come to him on his own. No. No, the little runt was just a puppet, a little harmless puppet and someone wiser was pulling his strings, pulled by their own strings as well…

…Someone wanted him loose. And not only loose, they wanted him big. Bad. Back. Public, messy, maniacal mayhem. Tried to take his zeal and fervor and make it into a fucking _kids movie_, had to dumb down and Disney-fy his act for the masses like the newspapers written at less than a third grade reading level…

And whoever they were, they wanted the same thing. They wanted chaos. Disorder. Military law. They wanted the people of Gotham to eat each other…

…in short, the Joker realized with a spark of fury, what they wanted was the Batman…

…_His _Batman.

"No, no, no," He whispered in the darkness. That wouldn't do. _That wouldn't do at all-!

* * *

_

**11: 35 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center**

"It's still burning." Bradley said. "Still burning. And that's what I don't get. There wasn't a bomb, no like, jet fuel or anything like that…"

"The majority of the secondary destruction's been to the Southwest as well." The elderly man wheezed. And even over the scanner, Eugene had to admit, they'd heard reports of crumbling, if not collapse, of many more-

"Hell, Fox, look at this!" He cried, bringing up a city map. "These intersections, the one's they've reported as blocked off, sure there's a ring around the plaza-the initial shock wave-but we've got way more damage to that side."

"Yes, Mr. Bradley," Fox panted, "but the gas lines and electric mainframe run parallel, north south. So what does it _mean_?"

The officer glanced up, concerned. "You're hurting. I should get you to the hospital."

"It's just a broken leg." The elderly man grimaced. "They'd tie a better splint, maybe get me some morphine…the hospitals are overflowing with burn victims and the dying, Mr. Bradley. Families. Children. Do you really think they'd give a damn about an old man with a minor injury?"

"Yada yada we stay put," the younger man sighed. "Just warning you now I have a very low pain tolerance-"

"Then I'd say it's a very good thing it's not your leg that's broken." Fox smiled.

"Yeah," the officer agreed. "But watching other people suck it up just gives me the heebie-jeebies." _Quit being a pussy,_ Bradley thought scathingly, _but what the hell could you do when_ _gramps here was manning it up more than you ever could?

* * *

_

**11: 42 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

Yosef had seen it before. Had expected it, really. But it still cut deep, deep inside to see grateful smiles on upturned faces disappear into suspicion and mistrust, to hear the relief of worried family members fall into hushed whispers, silence, or accusations.

They were all tired. No, no they were exhausted. Had reached the end of their strength, their patience, their humanity. The sun was high, the heat in the nineties without the plumes of smoke hovering overhead reaching temperatures of over a thousand…

He took another long pull at a Gatorade offered by Elliot Goldfinger. He thanked the young man, absently staring off over the wreckage when he saw it. Agitation. Raised voices. Another problem at the barricade…

"You've got to let me through _MY SON's_ in there you've got to let me through get out of my fucking way-!"

He was well beyond weary. Felt pity and compassion for victims, for families…but was it too much to ask these people, this city he was trying to protect to respect if not his religion or skin tone but his position? Yosef plodded over, dreading to have this conversation with yet another concerned parent, spouse, lover, or friend. Yet he must. The Fire Marshall took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sir, but the Plaza is closed to civilians and rescue workers alike."

"The fuck it is," The man snarled, reaching for his waist in a manner that had Yosef's pulse racing, memories of his father after 9/11 swimming to his mind-

But it was a wallet, a wallet with a bronze star and not a gun the man placed before his dark eyes. "Lawless. Aaron Lawless. I'm in homicide. My son's in there you've got to let me through-"

Yosef removed his helmet, wiped the sweat off the top of his balding head with a dust covered handkerchief. He wasn't a young man anymore, and years of experience hadn't made the job any easier, hadn't made dealing with distraught families and missing loved ones any less difficult.

"Sir, I'm sorry." The Fire Marshall said. "I truly am. But going in there is suicide. You're looking at an area of nearly six city blocks under thirty feet of rubble, uncontrolled fires and flare-ups with buildings threatening to topple at any second. It's too dangerous. I cannot in good conscience let you pass."

"Yeah? Well this is my _son_." The cop thrust a cell phone in his astonished face. "His name is Jimmy. He's in there. He's alive. He's under a goddamned firetruck and you tell him,_ you tell him_ it's too fucking _dangerous_-!"

* * *

**11: 55 EST**

**WE/USM Arhival Wing, The Pentagon, Washington DC  
**

"What the fuck do you mean it went _missing?_" SOHC asked the young Petty Officer furiously, only now being briefed on DRAGONFIRE. A program that had been around since before the 1990's for God's sake, microwave emission technology from Wayne Enterprises envisioned for the vaporization of enemy water supplies. Cold War Era. Afghanistan. Soviet Resistance fighters. Of course, it was only years later that the technology had been developed on a practical scale, now available not only for military or Black Ops but Police crowd control as well-senior year of debate team at Hanover, if he recalled right, MEDUSA and the ethics of using such 'non-lethal' military devices against American citizens…

But that was twenty-odd years ago. And the connections he'd made through that team led him down the long, weary road to where he was standing-or rather, sitting-now. And that same damn technology, that same damn code-word program had come back to haunt him. The thing wasn't so much classified as long-since buried into the abysmal archives of the US Military…although they amounted to much the same.

"Sir, Wayne Enterprises briefed us last year as soon as the weapon was stolen, presumably by Somali pirates, although the data there is incredibly sketchy. Point being, we know for certain this weapon or one based closely on its design was responsible for the incident known as Fear Night." The soldier replied.

Fear Night. Unprecedented level of terrorist hostility and no warning, no chatter through any channels. _Ass-raped_, is what his predecessor had called it, the seeming incompetence of the Department of Homeland Security and FBI had led to a complete regime change in Washington, landing Calderon, and the secretary himself, with the fall out. SOHC had enough decency not to shoot the messenger, instead turning to the official in charge of the briefing with his best demanding scowl. "And why wasn't my office informed?"

The Pentagon official ruffled his notes with the height of arrogance. "Frankly, sir, it was a need to know basis."

"And what about the _largest terrorist attack_ on US soil didn't make you think this was a dire piece of information about national security-!"

"Until the time of the attack, we had no information to suggest it would ever be used as a weapon against America, let alone civilian populations. And afterwards, our engineers had concurred the weapon must have been destroyed in the blast." The man said dryly.

"Clearly you were wrong." Secretary of Homeland Security snorted, turning back to the Petty Officer. "And if I understand you right they're re-engineered it."

"Yes," Petty Officer Sylvester MacDonald replied, to the consternation of the Pentagon official. "They've amplified the effects. It takes a certain frequency to excite water molecules-that's how a conventional microwave oven works, sir. It doesn't generate _heat_, it uses electromagnetic waves to cause excitation of electrons, whose movement is what we term 'thermal energy.' My theory is that this device has been re- calibrated to excite not the bonds of water molecules but those found in metal, specifically those of the steel alloy compound found in the perimeter and core weight-bearing columns or caissons of the Legacy's foundations."

The Secretary blinked. "And-?"

"And it would create the same thermal energy, exciting the particles and creating a flux-"

"Goddamnit, Petty Officer!" SOHC bellowed. "English! Speak English!"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary." The former Naval Academy engineering student replied nervously. "It, it would, for all intents and purposes, _melt_ the metal. The building's weight would lean towards the weakened side, but the open engineering of the building would shift weight from the perimeter to the core-"

"That's one theory." The OIC cut across the younger officer's speech. "Which we have considered but have deemed impractical and therefore improbable. We are required to present this information to you but our committee in no ways believes this theory has any credence. The energy expenditure required to do so would be enormous and its applications would be inefficient as a tactical weapon-"

"The first atom bomb was an embarrassment as far as engineering efficiency, sir," MacDonald added nastily. "But it was just as effective for its crudeness."

"What are you saying, son?" SOHC prompted, having decided the younger officer was by far the more honest and intelligent of the briefing committee. He'd see the youngster promoted when this was over, or a medal at the very least…

"What I'm saying, Mr. Secretary, is that we are NOT looking at a conventional weapon designed for tactical warfare," He here glared at his superior, " at least not in the standard sense. What we're looking at is Hiroshima. Or better, 9/11. A single-use, one time only event, a weapon crudely but effectively adapted to one purpose: to suddenly and silently collapse a major structure and there's only one reason for that-"

"Terrorism."

"Bingo, sir. It maximizes the civilian casualties."

"That is one theory-" The Pentagon official declared again, only to be silenced by a weary wave from the SOHC. He sighed, removed his bifocals-damn! when had he gotten so fucking old?-and wiped the sweat of his beading brow. For several seconds there was silence, and the Secretary straightened his spectacles and looked to the young Sergeant, feeling for the first time the fifty-three years and forty-odd extra pounds he was carrying. Hell, he _was_ old, he realized. This wasn't a new playing field but a new game, a new game entirely, and the best thing an old fart could do was wisen up and listen to the youngsters who understood inherently what was going on…it was their world, after all. The Hanover alumnus turned to the handsome young officer, who, for having the weight of responsibility thrust suddenly on his strong shoulders, seemed to bear it and bear it well.

"How do we counter it?" He asked the younger man with frankness, not a general looking for advice from a trusted academian but more like a father, pleading with a son for instructions on the ever-changing modern technology kids these days seemed to have programmed into their genes. 'It was a brave new world out there' his ass. _Hope your generation does more with it than mine ever did, Kid._ His had left it in a shitty mess….

"Fight fire with fire." The Pentagon official said coolly, missing the gravity of both the request and the moment. "Drop an EMP over the plaza. It's essentially the same technology, and it'll fry any circuitry. Stop the motherfucker dead."

"You're an idiot if you think Wayne Enterprises hasn't hardened that product for protection…sir." MacDonald quipped, emboldened. "Besides, you really want to EMP the largest city in the US? One with the highest rate of violent crime in the world and currently a federally declared disaster area? No sir."

"We've got to stop this thing and stop it now, damnit!" SOHC swore. "And Petty Officer-?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary?"

"English? For this old fart?"

A strained smile stretched across that youthful black face. "HERF, stands for High Energy Radio Frequency. We can convert light into lasers, and we can convert it into other things as well, think radio waves and microwaves. At any given moment, there's thousands of radio waves crossing through your body but there are no effects because their energy is so low-they have a longer wavelength and a low frequency. In essence, they're weak, just like ordinary visible light. But we can excite and focus them-like a laser, sir. HERF can be used to temporarily interfere with communications through a continuous signal. An EMP is…let's say the atom bomb of HERF. It's simply a pulse or burst instead of a constant stream of electromagnetic energy-"

"Come again, son?"

"Light. Not visible light, sir, although it includes it." MacDonald began again. "Think of UV radiation-sunburns. We've harnessed similar energy for making X-rays and gamma rays for medical procedures, just like we've harnessed radio waves for broadcasting…well, radio. So this EMP is what's emitted during a nuclear explosion, that's why it's so deadly not only to living tissue but technology as well. Luckily, the military's known this since the MANHATTAN project and we've worked to protect our systems against it-"

Just the mention of the 'M' word caused the Secretary's eyebrows to disappear into his receding hairline. "This thing is _nuclear_-?"

"Hardly." The Petty Officer soothed. "That's just where we discovered it first. We've been developing that same technology in a non-lethal fashion for taking out enemy communications. Hardware-like this thing WE's made-can be and will be protected by a Faraday box. The thing was developed right around the time our government was developing, using-it's not classified anymore, sir, but we were-and absolutely paranoid about a non-nuclear EMP attack at home, sir."

"And this Farley box-"

"Faraday, sir." He continued, not unkindly. "Think of it as a… surge protector, for your television or computer, acting like a buffer against…oh, let's say a lightning strike. But anything not 'hardened' would be…say an alarm clock or microwave. There'd be no evidences of burning, no physical signs of having been tampered with, but the resistors would be fried."

"What you're saying is-"

"Any device that uses capacitors and resistors-anything that runs on electricity or electric circuits, cell phones, televisions, city lighting, even your watch, sir, would be permanently destroyed." MacDonald said with levity, sending the Pentagon official a scathing look. "And while effective for war time efforts, it is hardly appropriate over a civilian population as the destruction would include _any and all_ unprotected emergency generators as well."

As slow as he had been to understand the young man's techno-speak, SOHC rounded on the Pentagon official with the speed and venom of a striking snake. _"You fuck-face, what the hell were you thinking-!_?" He spat. "Shut down _ALL_ power? _Inequivocably_? Are you out of your fucking mind-!?"

The tiniest and most professional of smirks twitched across the young Petty Officer's face.

"No." SOHC said quietly. "No. I can't do that. It's tantamount to murder. No." He turned to the engineer. "Soldier, I need more options."

"Emergency shutdown. MSB and UOB. Tell the Northeastern sector to shut off gas and electrics to Gotham City. Whatever the hell that thing's runnin' off, it's runnin' hot, sir. But if you shut down the main power grid, it'll be a few seconds, maybe more until that thing's just a pile of useless shit."

He closed his eyes, prudence screaming no but logic craving surety. "Is there a possibility that…that thing's on… 'backup' power as well?" Could the bastards who'd planted the thing have known-? Would they have known and gloated at the situation they faced his government with-?

"Unlikely." The Pentagon official said hastily, trying to make some contribution, a move and tone which all politicians world wide had dubbed (in their own respective languages) cover-my-ass. "The amount of energy-and time-required to thoroughly heat a perimeter column to the point of compromising structural integrity would be tremendous, perhaps unheard of. The sheer volume of storage you'd need for such a device is hardly conductive to secrecy, if indeed this is a terrorist attack-"

"-in which secrecy and concealment would be of utmost concern, it would have to be the mainframe." The Naval officer finished.

The Secretary thought long and hard. It all made sense, but then again, the world on paper always made sense, black and white, cut and dry, not messy and red and wet and squalling like a newborn, like the chaos that life really was. For all their talk, they were back to square one: cutting power. "Along with every other appliance in the damn city that runs off electricity. I can't do that, not with hospitals-"

"The Hospitals in this instance would maintain their emergency generators as backup power." Petty Officer MacDonald reminded him. " And yes, you'll lose power but in a much more controlled fashion. You'll still have emergency generators functioning, both commercial and private. But if you drop an EMP or just use HERF you'll run the risk of taking out everything, sir, and I mean everything, down to _pacemakers_ inside the blast radius. It might be on the mainframe it might not, but you've got to make a choice, and you've got to do it fast. Buildings are falling around the epicenter, sir, maybe from shock waves of the initial collapse…or it could be something far more sinister. I could be wrong about this entire thing, it's only a theory and a sketchy one at that. But if it IS this thing-" he gestured to the monitor in front of them, where DRAGONFIRE's prodigy spun in slow 3-D, " and it IS still running, it's only a matter of time before the beam reaches a gas line-"

"And-?" Secretary of Homeland Security asked, already dreading the answer. The Pentagon official suddenly paled.

"Best case scenario?" MacDonald said earnestly. "It'll heat the pipelines, expand the gas, increase the pressure and you'll be looking at Fear Night again, sir. Only this time it's not a psychiatric compound it's an explosive material. If it sparks, or is exposed to flame or electric current, goodbye Gotham. Not just the plaza, but the whole damn city. Anything. Everything connected to natural gas-"

* * *

**12: 03 EST **

**FCC Secure Emergency Broadcast Channel**

_"This is Governor Stephanie Miller, commander in chief of the National Guard, and I am ordering a mandatory compliance with emergency shutdown procedure FAILSAFE. Our engineers have discovered a threat to Gotham City Plaza and all onsite volunteers. The threat of explosion due to interference in the main gas lines could level this city. You are on shutdown procedure FAILSAFE, and failure to comply will be considered by this administration as no less than accessory to terrorist threat-"_

* * *

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

"Sir, we have an authenticated order from state to shut down the mainframe."

"Shut down?!" Shift manger Emilio Gonzalez spat. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Although it could not yet be confirmed, the panic had risen and the terrorist threat level had been raised to RED, making this the largest ever terrorist attack on US soil, in her largest city, which tourism industries the world wide recognized as one of the most dangerous places to live. The CIA disagreed: Warizistan still held that record. But when was the last time someone had opted to immigrate _there?_

"The fucking hospitals are overloaded and you want me to turn power OFF-?-!" And with that, Gonzalez choked on his own rage, making apopletic sputtering noises, momentarily speechless. Taking down the power grid was unheard of. The panic that would ensue…sure, communications would remain up thanks to cellular phones but television, traffic lights, city lights, everything but the fucking airport and the hospitals would be pitched into blackness…and there was only so much power to be had from emergency back up generators…

"Absolutely not. It's fucking crazy." If one pushed a panicked crowd to far…well, you were looking at riots, shootings, pandemic violence, hell, even urban war…not even after Fear Night and thousands of yards of damaged sewer, gas, and electric lines was the mainframe taken off line completely. "I don't give a shit what you hear from these beaurocrat bastards, no one, NO ONE touches the mainframe, do I make myself clear?"

Pansy politicians sitting on their fat asses behind their immaculate desks never walked the streets never looked into the eyes of a woman selling herself to keep her kids from starving to death, never seen the gangs who for fun drove the streets and gunned children down…no, no none of these people, none of these gringos had ever lived on the frontera, none of them knew what it would be like-

The technicians blinked. "Sir, it's an _authenticated_ order-"

* * *

**12: 04 Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

_"We repeat, this is a government-organized emergency shutdown of power. We repeat, there is no need to panic there will be a temporary shut down of all power through the Greater Gotham City Area. Police and National Guard are making appeals for cooperation and compliance-"_

Officer Fred Milton turned away from the image of Cameron Shaw on the news screen to radio the Ops center. "You gettin' this, man?"

"Hell yeah." Bradley's voice echoed through the speaker. "You know what it means?"

_It means someone just got smart. It means we're about to get our asses busted for what we did. But fuck, we'd do it again, wouldn't we-? _The technician wondered. "It means you take care, you hear?"

"Yeah." Eugene's voice came faint and muffled. "Will do." Milton hung up the Comm, turning with Crispus Allen, Renee Montoya and Anna Ramirez to watch the coverage of the Legacy while they still could. That blonde reporter droning on and on, repeating the message that this was not further hostilities, that the loss of power would be purposeful and indefinite. Fred Milton rubbed his eyes wearily. Only yesterday he'd kidded Lawless and Gordon, made some dumb-ass remark about Tanaka's tits. But that sort of juvenile humor just wasn't funny anymore, and it would be a long, _long_ time before he joked again.

* * *

**12: 07 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

"Sir, I'm asking you to get the fuck out of my way."

But Yosef was firm. This man, this father was not thinking. Crazed, delirious, desperate for news and aid for his son…it was cruel, yes, but could not be helped. Sometimes in disaster, like war, calls had to be made, orders followed. Had the smoke been less, helicopter access possible, perhaps they could have rapelled into the plaza, could have searched for this missing son…but to try to gain access by foot, to walk between those towering buildings, looming over the streets like the horns of Hattim…no, no it was impossible. No man could walk where sheet glass sparkled, scintillating and sinister in the summer sun, could make it through that pass where bits of buildling came crumbling down with every whir of every siren…

Perhaps if they had more time. If the military's seismic sensors weren't interrupted they could formulate a plan, deliberate demolition of the remaining structures, bring them down under control…but more debris meant more fire. Less air. More shit to search through, to dig down…Yes, yes this boy was alive. But to reach him would be to kill him and anyone sent on the rescue. It was…impossible.

"And as Fire Marshall of Gotham City I'm ordering you to stand down, officer." Yosef said, standing ground. No one else would die here. Not today.

* * *

**12: 10 EST**

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

Emilio Gonzalez was exhausted. He was also panicking. And truth be told, he was more than just a little mad. Psychiatrist Harlene Quintzel would later quip it was obvious that Gonzalez suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and her oh-so-professional opinion would be forever immortalized in an official military inquest. But hindsight is always 20/20, and emotional trauma by definition is made manifest only in times of extreme duress.

Had Quintzel been present, she herself would have been hard pressed to find anything conclusive. Her trained eye may have noticed his obsession and aggression compared to his sorrow-shocked co-workers, but there were also the variables of gender, age, race and socio-economic upbringing that must be considered.

But Emilio Gonzalez was unaware of all of this. He knew and knew only that his job was to keep the mainframe running, running at all costs because terrible things would happen were it to shut down, now someone was ordering him to shut down the mainframe but it was his job to keep it running it had to be kept running…

Adrenaline. Testosterone. Gonzalez's adrenal cortex was on overdrive and his mind on autopilot-

"Sir, you are acting in direct defiance to a government emergency manual shutdown order. I am relieving you of your duties-"

But the brave technician never got the chance to finish. Something suddenly _snapped_, and Gonzalez reared back one of his huge fists, punching the smaller man dead on in the solar plexus, the technician's earnest eyes going wide, then blank, the body tumbling in a gracefully arc to the machinery, then falling heedless and limp to the floor below-

Natalie Hendricks and her two remaining co-workers screamed.

* * *

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

And that's when it happened. The unthinkable. That inescapable, agonizing click, chambered round, a hollow muzzle dark and cold like the throes of death, and Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, nearly 30 years after 9/11, was staring down the barrel of firearm like his father, yet this was held not by a blood crazed civilian for his religion or race but by an officer of the self same nation he had sworn to protect-

* * *

**12: 12 EST**

**Gotham City International Airport**

**Temporary HQ State National Guard/Department of Homeland Security**

Root's men were already aboard the choppers, less than a minute out, guns up and at the ready. The power plant's eerie desolation of pipes and towers stretched across the suburbs like an alien nesting ground, full of unearthly, metallic eggs and pavement.

_"This is Governor Stephanie Miller, authorizing a seizure and manual shutdown of Gotham Utilities effective immediately. I repeat, authorizing a seizure and manual shutdown of Gotham Utilities ASAP. You are authorized to use deadly force if necessary-"_

Miller's message ran looped over the National Guard Channel, her soldiers already above their target, ready to defend their country, their state, their friends, neighbors…under attack by unknown forces, a mission a reason a purpose the only thing between their professionalism and the panic of the masses. No, someone had attacked their country. Their city. And the motherfuckers were going to pay for it. The military chopper touched down, spewing 16 soldiers, armed and ready to kill.

* * *

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

"You heard Miller we have to turn it off-!" Natalie Hendricks shouted, last of the resistance. She could give in she should give in she had her life ahead of her just bought her dress engagement ring gouging her manager's skin with her feeble attempt at a punch-

"NO!" Gonzalez roared, hands on the young woman's throat, shaking her, shaking her like some tossed rag doll, a child's plaything, even in his rage unable to draw back an arm and hit a woman. But he had to stop her, yes, stop her she didn't understand none of them did no one but him he'd been there, been there along the border seen drogas and pandillas people killing people raiding shooting chaos mayhem murder wouldn't couldn't _no se puede occurir aquí-!_

* * *

**12: 13 EST **

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial ParkwayGCFD Barricade**

The man's hands were shaking. Yosef was rooted to the spot, transfixed; the eyes of his men now drawn, widening, sudden deadly silence men in firesuits jumping up to their feet in slow motion, not knowing, not comprehending running running like all his other comrades like those brave souls on 9/11 like those slaughtered here today-

* * *

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

M-16 raised ready to shoot plastic explosives steel core door flying off hinges, Julius Root shouting _Gogogo!

* * *

_

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway **

**GCFD Barricade**

_"LAWLESS-!"_

* * *

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

Soldiers spilled into the room smoke blast screams guns shouldered and ready three bodies on the floor a young woman standing covering in blood Root turned on the spot shouted "CLEAR!"

* * *

**12: 14 EST **

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway **

**GCFD Barricade**

_He's in control he said but he had been wrong he wasn't in control even the Batman had his limits and Jim Gordon was running, running in the past and present who are you going after he'd asked and the Batman growled he was going after Rachel-_

Not Rachel. Not Rachel but his _son_-

He placed one shaking hand on that strong arm. "Put the gun down, Lawless." Commissioner James Gordon ordered gently. "Put it down." Detective Aaron Lawless shuddered. Blinked. Hazel eyes owlish and squinting as if in sudden sun-

Yosef Abdullah Salim Hadded watched numbly as the dark pit of that hollow muzzle wavered once, then slowly lowered under that authoritative plea. It was over.

* * *

**12: 15 EST**

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

…and it was over. Root's second in command was performing CPR on the fallen technician, more National Guardsmen were knelt over the unconscious forms of two more workers, using field issued flashlights to test for pupillary reflexes. Startling and grotesque against the computer hardware was the shredded shrapnel of the once-was-security door, a bright red shock of scarlet pooled around its base, the only evidences of Emilio Gonzalez's death. Root's men had accomplished their mission without firing a single shot.

Sitting at those same computers, spattered in blood and blinking back tears sat a young woman, studiously initiating the shut down procedure. Finally she looked up, face blank and shell-shocked, freckled with blood and bits of bone.

"Is it done?" Root asked.

She nodded. And then, only then, did Natalie Hendricks-soon-to-be-Holden fall sobbing into the Colonel's chest.

* * *

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

Aaron Lawless staggered back, nearly collapsing against the Commissioner. Gordon tightened his grip on his friend's arm, steadying him as he breathed, "Oh shit-" With his other hand, he coaxed the gun from the Detective's fingers, then released him.

For a moment no one moved. Seven firemen stood, caught like strange, terra-cotta statues in mid-movement, hesitant and wondering, gathered around in silence, the only sounds the distant whirring of sirens, deep treble and bass of cracking plate glass and raining concrete as the whole word shook as violently as the middle-eastern looking man he'd just saved-

"_Dad?"_ A tinny voice from a forgotten phone._ "Mr. Lawless-?" _

Lawless was the first to break. Dusty hands raised to his short-cropped hair, fingers raking through nails raising welts Gordon heard him whisper "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh Christ-!"

* * *

**12: 17 EST **

**Gotham United Methodist**

_"We repeat, do not panic. All viewers in the Greater Gotham City Area will be losing power shortly. This is a government initiated emergency procedure-"_

Shaw. Good for her.

With all her heart Rebecca James of TV 18 news wished there was something more she could do for Gotham…but hadn't Paul said it? _You've done enough._ And she'd be a fool to think that helping one little girl-the cherished hope a family now dead-was any less heroic than what her co-worker was doing right now. Family. Kids. Wasn't that what _Stop the Violence_ was all about?

That nurse walked by again. The one who had been so kind, so understanding. James rose from the bedside, a pressing question suddenly on her mind-

"Excuse me, Miss Lawless?"

The dark-haired woman turned. "Yes?"

"I hate to bother you," the red head apologized lowly, "I know you're both busy but have you seen Mr. Wayne?"

"No." The RN replied, and with her whispered words the lights flickered once, then died. And like Golgotha so long ago, the world was plunged in darkness.

* * *

**12: 18 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

The statues moved. Sighed in relief. Silent prayers of gratitude. The man he'd rescued extended his hand. "Thank you." He said. "You know this man?"

"Yes." Gordon replied. "Yes."

"I am Yosef Haddad. Fire Marshall-"

"I'm police commissioner James Gordon."

"Good." Yosef grunted. "You can dismiss this man." He gestured, not unkindly, to Lawless. "He needs _rest_-"

"No." The distraught Detective insisted. "No. I have to get through. You don't understand. _I'msorryI'msorryI'msofuckingsorry_ but I have to get through-"

Gordon could tell the Fire Marshall was about to counter, to say it was too dangerous, it was suicide, he'd never make it in his condition when the unthinkable happened. With a grinding shake, toppling concrete, and the low rush of heavy thunder the earth shook, shook again as one block ahead of them, thirty-five floors of glass and decorative brick shuddered, sloughed, and careened slowly to the ground-_Dust dust rising dustsothicksofastcan'tseecan'tbreathe-!_

…nothing.

Coughing. Smoke? Fog? Haze? More coughing. Low sound like roaring thunder, like crashing waves like the pounding of Niagra Falls when he and Barb had stolen away for their fifteenth anniversary-

_Barb. The feel of her skin, smell of her hair, flash of her smile-_

* * *

**12: 20 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

_The earth was shaking screaming it was burning, burning everything was black ash and dust gunshots he screamed in fear but it was just the pistols the pistols the service pistols...Yet with that thought that logical thought it all became crystal clear. Service pistols. Police Officers. Had his mother been a police officer-? But he was he was a police officer he was 22 he was a Detective he was Detective Jimmy Connolly not a child whose mother called him Angel-  
_

And in that moment, Detective Jimmy Connolly came to and realized three things. It was so hot the guns were going off on their own. He had to take out the magazines in the dark, un-chamber the rounds but the bullets could still explode. They were burning, burning burning under a fire truck under a gas tank under who knows how many gallons of highly flammable liquid a_nd the bullets could still explode._ They were under a truck a truck the red truck a fire truck a fire _tanker_ under five thousand gallons of _water_-

Letting go of that throbbing gash he groped for his gun rolled over felt for the woman's waist felt the gun felt the gun as he had feeling frantically for her cell phone hours ago flicked safeties off raised his hands afraid of ricochet afraid of drowning afraid to die whispered _Godhelpme-!_ and emptied both magazines into the tanker's belly.

* * *

**12: 23 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade  
**

Yosef stood.

The air was heavy again, heavy and choking with dust. It settled in his thick hair, his beard, caked his skin, the inside of his throat. But something was…wrong. The air was so, so…

…still. There had been that terrible jerk, the decorative outer shell of the commercial building sloughing off, leaving the floors naked and bare. He raised his dark eyes to the skyline and saw that yes, yes many other buildings had been so stripped, looked like pathetic trees wrest of leaves in late autumn. There had been that terrible jerk, the crashing of concrete and glass, the rising cloud like a tide of dust, the earth had shuddered and screamed., but now all was still.

That eerie, mechanical, throbbing pulse-the demon's raging heartbeat-had finally been quelled.

"Mr. Gordon? Mr. Gordon-!" A panicked voice brought the Fire Marshall back to reality. He blinked. Turned wearily on the spot. "Mr. Gordon? Commissioner? Sir-!" Firefighter Elliot Goldfinger was shaking the smaller man whose life he'd just saved. But in covering him he'd heard a crack, heard a crack even over the deafening roar of earth-jarring collapse. The young man's adrenaline had kicked in, Yosef knew as he stumbled slowly over, unable to feel the pain his own eyes had registered. Goldfinger had broken his wrist. Severely.

That man, that…Lawless? Was crawling towards them, plaster-coated, looking like a harrowed grey ghost. "Here," His deep voice rasped. "Here, let me look at that-"The young man blinked. Stared at the bone and blood stuck so suddenly through the flesh of his arm-

"Compound fracture. You've jammed your carpals down against your ulna and it's fractured." The man said, suddenly calm, clamping a firm hand over the young firefighter's forearm. "Median, ulnar nerve damage. Ulnar artery's been compromised. You need to get to the hospital-"

Yosef shuddered. "Your Commissioner as well."

"I'm fine." James Gordon muttered weakly, sitting up. "I'm…I'm…let's get you on an ambulance, son."

"No, no I'm alright, I'm fine-" Goldfinger protested feebly. The Commissioner looked to Lawless questioningly. The Detective nodded. Yosef understood: this man had medic training of some sort…

"Let's get you to the hospital, son." The Commissioner said again, then turned back to Lawless. "And let's get you in there."

"Jim, I-"

"You don't _have _to thank me." He said mildly, and yet the words were heavy, pregnant, overflowing with unspoken significance that even Yosef could understand. Then James Gordon turned to him. "Mr. Haddad, I am authori-I am _asking_ you to let this man through."

James Gordon. Well-respected. Well-liked. Yosef himself, though long suspicious of the corruption in the GCPD, had been impressed with this man. This man and former DA Harvey Dent. Now wasn't the time to argue jurisdiction. Securing paperwork, authorizations, calculate strategic risk…now was the time to act. Act on instinct. Act on humanity…And act together…

"Goldfinger!" The Fire Marshall barked.

"Sir?" Asked the young man who had rescued Sara McCloud not eight hours previously.

"How long have you been on duty, son?" But the answer was apparent to all: too long.

"Since 3pm, yesterday." He said stoicly, steeling himself for the next task at hand. Goldfinger was ready to follow orders, follow orders into the danger of the Plaza itself with a broken wrist if need be. He was so tired, so tired he just wanted to sleep but he couldn't give up, couldn't give up not yet not now-

"You are to go to the hospital. You are relieved of your duties immediately." The Fire Marshall said crisply.

"No, sir, I can-"

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Yosef said, stooping to place one hand upon the youth's uninjured arm. "You've done enough." Elliot Goldfinger trembled from head to foot just as James had, then bowed his head and wept.

* * *

**12: 30 EST**

**Situation Room, The Pentagon, Washington DC  
**

"And yes-!" Petty Officer Sylvester MacDonald cried. "Yes! National Guard's reporting stabilization of their seismic equipment, they're getting accurate readings of the plaza-"

The Pentagon official let out a deep, deep sigh, closing his eyes and leaning back in the padded leather chair in relief. SOHC just blinked. "But what does it _mean_?"

MacDonald grinned. "It means we were right."

_We _were right? Secretary of Homeland Security thought. They'd made a blind guess and a shot in the dark. And they'd been right…well, _MacDonald_ had been right. And he'd be getting a medal and a letter of recommendation and perhaps a promotion as well. He bowed his head, heaved a long sigh. There'd be paperwork. Miles and miles of paperwork, of tracking down this goddamned machine…But he couldn't think of that right now. Right now he was on a secure line to POTUS, wondering what impressed him more, the officer's instinct, his honesty, the way he'd taken that dreadful responsibility on his young shoulders…or the fact that he'd handled being right with so much maturity: _we_ were right.

Before the week was out, Sylvester MacDonald would no longer be just Petty Officer. His introduction to and lunch with Geraldo Calderon would see to that.

* * *

**12: 37 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

**GCFD Barricade**

The Police Commissioner stood by as Yosef stripped the young man of his gear and dressed the officer, instructing him meticulously on the use of the SCBA respirator, the heat tolerance of the suit, to take off his service pistol as the heat might trigger the explosive rounds, the prudence of taking medical supplies and water, and the importance of silence in the threat of falling debris… And finally Yosef was done, and this father was bundled in a GCFD suit.

"Thank you." Aaron Lawless's muffled voice returned sincerely, addressing him and the shorter Commissioner alike. "Thank you. For everything."

"May Allah be with you." He said.

Detective Aaron Lawless nodded once, pulled down the visor of the helmet, and before the eyes of Commissioner James Gordon he disappeared into that cloud of dust and rubble.

"Do you think he'll make it?" Goldfinger asked weakly from the ground, as EMS worker Jennifer Hanson tied a tourniquet around his forearm.

"I think he deserves the chance to try." Gordon said slowly. Yosef smiled.

…how was it the Christians said? Ah, yes, _with man this thing is impossible, but with God, all things are possible-?_ Could Allah, where his own meager show of strength had failed, grant the miracle to send this man in safety to save his son-? This…Lawless? Yes, this Lawless had simply been carried away in his zeal. A cop, yes, but a father, a man of courage and faith. Sweating in the heat of the summer sun and the Legacy's rising smoke, confronted with both this best and worst of humanity, Yosef smiled. He found he could not only forgive the man…but commend him.

* * *

**AN: If you're reading this…I'm impressed! It means you made it all the way through! As a thank you I'll give away some spoilers: the next installment has more Paltron, more Bruce, more Joker, and our first glimpse at a certain scrawny, scary psychiatrist. Three guesses who!**


	20. Two Cities

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust. _**

**AN: This chapter is a continuant of the last, broken down into smaller pieces for sanity's sake because (frankly) this story arc has gotten out of hand. And by that I mean it has completely absconded with my life and sanity. The disclaimer from Martyr stands: all views, opinions, commentaries or fanatic acts of terrorism portrayed or contemplated by characters of Ernestina are their own and have no reflection on the author's beliefs whatsoever. All global politics are merely a reflection of current world trends/fears and projections for the not-so-distant future.**

**You must, must, must check out J-Horror Girl's**** _Can't Get You Out of My Head,_ whose twisted plotline lets us know for certain that there's nothing too confusing, exciting, or terrifying that it can't be wrestled into writing. I won't give away any spoilers…so if you get bored with this monstrosity, or need something with a little more humor to perk you up, or want to see some of the art that inspired Ernestina, go check it out. I promise you really ****_can't _****get it out of your head! **

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**"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." --Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

* * *

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**The Following is the GCPD file of one Dr. Jonathan Crane, former professor of Gotham University, Psychology department. As this document contains information garnered under the Patriot Act and classified FBI sources, no part of this file is to be copied or distributed without express permission of Dan Murray, FBI Director Gotham City Branch. **

**Jonathan Crane, FBI Audio Records Investigative Interview #57**

Interviewer: And what was your involvement, Dr. Crane?

Crane: My involvement was minimal. I merely recruited a colleague of mine-Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley- for aid in the identification of the toxin compound and the gene responsible for its propitiation. I was responsible for the import of a yet undiscovered and unresearched psychedelic, xenophytic specimen into the continental US, through official security and environmental channels with proper documentation.

Interviewer: And were you aware of the intended use of the toxin at the time of your research?

Crane: The intended use of the toxin was as a pharmacological enhancement to certain anti-psychotic drugs, hence the efforts to isolate or engineer a vaporous form. Blenophobia is a strikingly common phenomenon, especially amongst the mentally ill. In addition, the use of sharp objects on a patient care ward poses dangers not only to the patients but the staff as well.

(Long pause. Rustling of papers)

Interviewer: Be that as a it may, Mr. Crane, the Bhutanese University from which you obtained your so called grant is nonexistent.

Crane: Clearly you allude to the charges against me. I prefer to be enlightened in a manner that makes them inescapably clear.

(Pause)

Interviewer: It is our belief that during your time abroad in Bhutan after leaving Gotham University, you conspired with international terrorists to bring about the incident Fear Night.

(Uproarious Laughter)

Crane:International terrorists? Yes. Now I remember. They called themselves the League of Shadows. Claimed responsibility for the sacking of Rome, Saladin's recapture of Jerusalem, the Black Plague, and instigating both the sinking of the Litsutania and the bombing of Pearl Harbor and other such minor historical incidents-

(Smacking noise)

Interviewer: _You cocksucking bastard you think that's funny-!_

(Heavy thump. Strangled Cry.)

Interviewer: _These are American citizens we're talking about-!_

(Scrape of metal on tile. Muffled shouting)

**This interview is significant only that it explains the presence of physical signs of assault against the suspect when FBI psychologists were finally brought onto the case. The unnamed agent has since been suspended of duty and placed on psychological sabbatical until necessary anti-aggression remediation has been fulfilled. **

**The FBI will neither confirm nor deny the use of waterboarding as an investigative technique. **

**Psychiatric Consult: FBI interdepartmental psychoanalysis and biography of note**

It is the belief of this committee that the patient suffers from Schizophrenia of the Paranoid variety (see DSM code 295.3/ICD code F20.0). Without prior psychological profiling, it is impossible to date the onset of these significant note is a state of induced schizophrenic catatonia is a documented side effect of the Metuant toxin, with currently indefinite resolution.

Early childhood academic records from Peach Groove Elementary School, Jefferson, Georgia and discipline charges from the same indicate that the guidance counselor believed Crane suffered from an autism spectrum disorder such as Asperger's. Of important note is Crane's legal guardian at the time, Opal Constance Butler (maternal great-grandmother), refused medical testing or psychiatric referral.

Neighbors and church members claim Butler was decidedly hostile and negative towards her great-grandson. Although no verbal, mental, or physical abuse was ever reported to the local sheriff or Child Protective Services, statistical evaluation of socioeconomic and educational factors of such a geographically isolated area reveal a high prevalence towards child abuse, domestic violence and incest, with minimal reporting to local law enforcement. As of this time we can neither confirm nor deny any such occurrences in his youth.

County records show Jonathan Crane was never a confirmed member of any extra-curricular activity offered through local school systems or community centers. We believe this demonstrates either a forced or voluntary isolation from his social peers.

As a teenager, Jonathan Crane was implicated but his involvement was never confirmed in a shooting incident at Wade Hampton High School, Jefferson, Georgia, that resulted in the death of one Sherry Squires and the paralysis of one Bo Griggs. County records have deemed the incident an unfortunately automobile collision, with further investigations inconclusive. He is described by teachers and former classmates as reclusive, anti-social, genius, academic, focused, shy, hostile, with rather asexual tendencies for an adolescent. Rumors of homosexuality have been made but are unsubstantiated.

No surviving family members could be located for questioning. Of important note is the absence of his birth father's name from his birth certificate and record. Scarlet Nancy Crane, the only listed parent, was 16 at the time and public record indicates there was no attempts at application for a marriage license in either in her county of residence or any other Georgia counties. A missing person's report was filed for Scarlet less than six months after his birth.

His early professional history is accelerated, yet otherwise unremarkable. He finished an undergraduate in psychology at Gotham University in two years time, then proceeded to Gotham General School of Medicine for an MD/Ph D. program, continuing his education through a residency program in Psychiatry while simultaneously obtaining a doctorate in Psychopharmacology. He was then hired on at Gotham University as an assistant professor, teaching courses ranging from psychology, pharmacology, and criminology.

His contract terminated suddenly after an unfortunate death of a graduate student, wherein he made a plea bargain in a civil suit raised by the student's parents to resign his position if charges of negligence were dropped against him. Police reports indicate that Crane had Avram Bramowitz enter a criminology course to enact a shooting for shock value amongst undergraduate students. However, off duty GCPD officers auditing the class responded with the deemed appropriate force after shots were fired. Internal Affairs confirms a thorough investigation into the affair, and subsequently all charges of unnecessary brutality were dropped against Detectives Guinevere Paltron and Aaron Lawless. The victim's family could not be reached for questioning.

After this incident he was hired on as head of Arkham Asylum, by Jeremiah Arkham, third generation head of Arkham, a facility that has previously faced multiple counts of negligence, physician incompetence, and in current possession of the nation's highest institutional rate of faculty and inmate suicide.

Based on these aforementioned findings and classified National Security reports and interviews which cannot be cited, a diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia is tentatively assigned. However, the committee makes note that Dr. Crane is an experienced psychoanalyst quite capable of purposefully skewing the results of standard psychological profiling. His willingness and/or ability to do so may implicate even further pathological degeneration into a state of paranoia and mistrust, as well as continued psychosis. It is therefore our conclusion that Jonathan Crane be declared criminally insane, and placed into a ward specializing in behavioral and personality disorders to maximize his treatment.

**Public Hearing/Psychiatric Internment:**

I, Judge Oliver Holmes, by the power invested in me by the state, and by the consult of US Board Certified Psychiatrists Harleen Quintzel and Joan Leland, do hereby declare Jonathan Crane, the accused, to be criminally insane and incapable of facing criminal charges of conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism, attempted murder, fraud, possession of controlled substances, possession of biological weapons, malpractice, perjury, vigilantism, and crimes against humanity. He is hereby declared mentally and emotionally incompetent, removed of his licensure as a physician, and placed into the care of Arkham Asylum under the direct supervision of Dr. Harleen Quintzel.

**Note: Ongoing investigations into the legality of Jonathan Crane's capture by the GCPD with the aid of the vigilante Batman are underway. Also included in the charges against the GCPD are the following: failure to read Miranda rights, failure to make known charges after 24 hour holding period, and relinquish of custody to another government organization before charge or arrest. **

**The FBI is charged with negligence, unnecessary show of force, mental cruelty, abuse of a detainee, illegal acts of torture and coercion. **

**Additional Note: In light of the spreading crisis in Gotham City concerning international mafia trafficking and conspiracy, Crane vs. State has postphoned.**

**Further Note: In light of the appearance of a terrorist allegedly in mob employ, alias 'The Joker', the appeal for Jonathan Crane has again been postphoned.**

**Final Note: In light of his heinous acts against humanity and current mental condition, regardless of the illegality of his arrest/capture, it is the express wish of this agency and its governmental affiliates to keep Jonathan Crane incarcerated at Arkham Asylum indefinitely. Judge Holmes is currently appealing for federal intervention.

* * *

Tuesday, August 2oth, 2030 (The Year of the Dog).**

**12:48 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

There hadn't been time to worry about make-up and lighting. The cameraman had enough sense to frame the shot against the backdrop of the fallen ruins, but beyond that, the young reporter was on her own. Let her make of this tragedy what she would….

Yosef stood wearily before the camera as ash and dust rained down. It must look like snow, he thought fleetingly. Like snow to all the people. But these flakes were not cool but burning to the touch. He'd given his jacket to the young reporter, his red, scarred arms used to the heat of a scorching blaze.

"Now Mr. Haddad, we're heard there has been a change in evacuation procedure for Gotham City Plaza." The young woman said. "Can you tell us more about that?"

"Yes," Yosef replied, regretting momentarily that he stood here safety while his men ran with the National Guard towards those in need of rescue and aid. But he was Fire Marshall. And like the seismic scientists who monitored the structure of the plaza, he was now a general, not a foot soldier. He was needed here, in charge. He was needed here, before these cameras, to spread hope to hurting families…

"We have reason to believe that perhaps yes, the North East sector has been spared structure-wise. Before such data, we could not."

"As I understand, this data comes not three hours after the decision to close the Plaza to all rescue workers. Is that correct?

"Yes." Yosef repeated himself. "Yes. To send my men in blind? No. No I could not do that. But there is now hope, I think, that we can access survivors without aggravating the integrity of the plaza."

"I guess what all of Gotham is wondering is: will it succeed?"

Yosef smiled. Thought of that man. That Lawless. And the Commissioner Gordon. One must have faith. Must _choose to act_ on faith. What had been his words? Oh yes. "If Allah wills, then yes. But the citizens of this city deserve that we should try."

Surrounded by the wreckage of the Legacy's destruction Cameron Shaw of TV 18 news blinked in surprise. An effing _Muslim_-? How the Hell would her audience respond to that-? "And, and Mr. Haddad, what is your advice to families with missing loved ones?"

"Wait. Hope. And pray." Said Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, twenty-nine years since 9/11, twenty-nine years since the world had viewed his faith in a violent light, here now he had finally been given the chance to change it. "Yes, pray."

* * *

**12:55 EST**

**Beijing, American Embassy  
**

"_What a wonderful statement of hope, brought to us by Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad,"_ the voice of Anchorman Mike Engle came through the television.

Hope? The American Ambassador mused, looking owlishly out the windows of the Embassy to the streets below, swarmed with flocks of students and visiting foreigners. Someone-most likely a University student-had thought to haul in stereo equipment by bicycle from a nearby club, and now the hauntingly familiar strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rang solemnly in the polluted air.

Many held signs, predominantly in that crude, garbled 'Engrish' that resulted from cultural and contextual misunderstandings, although many Han sinographs graced those home-made placards as well, offering condolences, sympathy and support…

_And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there…_

And yes. Yes, Old Glory was waving high over the officious building, hung at half-mast.

A spontaneous outpouring of grief? Or simply yet another state organized parade or function? It was hard to fight down the skepticism at the presence of soldiers and police, standing tiny and emotionless, so cold and official around the gathered crowd. The PRC was still master and yet wary of her own people, even now.

And yet…and yet as that last chorus came to a crashing crescendo he couldn't help but blink back tears, no, no he was bawling like a fucking baby. For in this moment of fear, of unknown, of panic and worry this truth, this stronghold, this hope and this anchor swelled inside him like that song, for that Star-spangled banner yet waved, even here, even now, half a world away from the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

….And would. She always would.

* * *

**13:01 EST**

**Gotham City Utilities Switchboard**

"I'm with the NSA, you fuckface pussy, and I don't give a damn what your governor thinks. My first priority and my only priority here is taking care of this breach, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Root replied emotionlessly. Yeah, sure he didn't give a damn. Didn't give a damn if the main gas line might have blown and the whole city with it. These paramilitary types gave him the creeps. There was objectivity, and then there was obsession, and a deep seated coolnees that just didn't give a shit if millions of lives might be at stake as long as someone was following orders.

"Now I want to know what you know, soldier. Or haven't you cocksuckers NOTICED something strange about this whole operation? Huh?"

"With all due respect, sir," Root said in that same even tone. "Whoever has been supplying us with this information has been supporting the rescue of American citizens, and my first duty is to protect them." As he had, had since that first surprising radio call so many hours before...

"_Hellooo, National Guardsmen, whoever the Hell is in charge-"_

"_Sir, this is a military broadcast channel and you are in violation of FCC regulations, I repeat, this channel is closed to civilian usage-"_

"_No shit? This is a military channel? You'd think their systems would be a bit harder to crack. I KNOW, you dickhead, and that's why I'm using it. Now do something useful and put your boss on the line, okay?"_

"_This is Colonel Root of the National Guard. And this had fucking better be important." Root snapped. _

"_Yeah, sir," that voice said after a brief pause. " or whatever the hell you military types like to be called. It's fucking important."_

"_This man…this man thinks he has help." The familiar voice of the Gotham City Fire Marshall, effective AIC of aid and relief at the Plaza Proper stated via radio. "Cell phones.."_

"_Sending it your way, now." _

_The Colonel stood agape, eyes roving the screen shot laid in front of him. "This was taken not thirty seconds ago. It shows a distribution of EMF technology and resultant sonograms laid in the plaza proper-"another voice relayed calmly. _

_Every cellular carrier had a contract with the U.S. government. All telecommunications were in bed with the military but this? This was well beyond his scope of command, his security clearance and pay grade. In essence, Root reflected, he'd just been promoted…_

"_This is a local police band line!" He swore suddenly, realizing it was NOT the NSA. _

"_Fuck yeah, man." The first voice said."You know, someone's got to serve and protect while you guys are busy getting organized."_

"_Officer, how on earth did you come by this information?" He demanded._

_There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. That third voice, the deep, measured, mellow one, finally answered. "Let's put it this way, Mr. Root. We could tell you, but we'd probably have to kill you." _

He'd known, even then, seven hours ago, how this would all go down. And he was ignorant, oblivious that the technology he was trying so desperately to protect had ceased to broadcast at 9 AM with collapse of the Fountainhead. But it didn't make him less of a patriot to sacrifice for a lost cause, he would reflect in the years to come, perhaps it even made him more.

But that fascist bastard from the NSA wasn't buying. He ripped the sunglasses off his arrogant face, and stepped closer. "Colonel, I am _ordering_ you to disclose whatever information you have and to order your men to assist in the apprehension of these terrorists. "

"With all due respect, sir," Root returned, his men and civilian Natalie Hendricks watching incredulously, "these men are patriots. I decline."

"That's defiance of a direct order, colonel. I'll have your ass court-marshalled for this!"

_Yeah, cocksucker?_ Root thought calmly. _Tell me something I don't already know._ He nodded gravely. "Understood."

* * *

**13:09 EST **

**Chateau D'If, Penthouse Suite**

Patriotism, Meroni scoffed, was for the weak. The deluded. A man died for his own causes, never his country's. He went to war to defend his home, not his homeland, and the greatness of state and the grandeur and awe the naïve felt when they contemplated _dulce et decorum est_ was merely a measure of the success of the most universal of political propaganda.

The head of the Family's interests in Gotham City slowly preformed his physical therapy exercises, cursing inwardly at the preposterousness and inconvenience of redeveloping the muscles that had served him unfailingly for decades. Months confined to a wheelchair had weakened him to the point where he could walk short distances without a cane, at best, and suffer the indignity of receiving his guests seated, at worst. He cursed the Batman, cursed the Batman and his misplaced sense of morality.

Yes, yes it had been a mistake to hire the Joker. He had never felt comfortable, but the Chechen had insisted. It had been his thirst for restoring the Family's former power that led him to agree to such rashness. And he had gone to Gordon, had he not? Gone to Gordon and attempted to hand over the Bastard? Get justice for that DA, recompense for his woman?

It was an old rule, to be sure. Outdated. Old-fashioned. You don't fuck with your enemy's family. You do, you pay the price. The Joker set up those killings. The Joker sent that idealist Dawes to her death….

And yet this was how the Batman repaid him, dropping him three stories to the pavement below, shattering both tibias and displacing his knees. And all for nothing. Everything the masked crusader had learned from the interview he'd already known. And Dent? Dent hadn't even used the information he'd wrest from him, letting Ramirez live… But the man had been distraught, twisted, ruined by that laughing clown's hideous mind, mad in the end...

But Dent was gone. Dead. There would be no more problems of politicians forgetting their place. And the Batman had disappeared, hiding somewhere in the dark. Some hypothesized he'd been killed, arrested, captured under another name. But Meroni didn't believe in these rumors, didn't listen to word of mouth or hearsay.

The Batman was _gone._ Had hung up his cape and called it quits. The Batman had surrendered. Killed Dent for bringing this violence upon his city. It had been Harvey Dent, DA, who brought the scum and rats out of the sewers to plague the populace, not he. The Family didn't get rid of the human garbage in Gotham but they put them in their place. Dent…Dent and Dawes and Surrillo had nearly ruined everything.

The Batman wasn't foolish enough to be a patriot. He'd die for no one's causes but his own, and for whatever misguided reasons he'd chosen protecting Gotham, he had finally learned, had he not, that Gotham was better left to the protectorate that had always seen to her streets: The Family. Yes, there was violence. Yes, there was crime. But how many hungry families had gone fed because of the money he'd laundered through Sisters of Mercy and her community charities? How many men had he employed in small, menial tasks, scraping a living out of restaurants, theaters, hotels, as fronts for the Family that would otherwise be prowling the streets, seeking what petty crimes they may?

No, no men like that worthless scum Joe Chill were the real problem with this city. Gangs like Guerrero's, those pathetic Latin Pigs, and their initiation rites of murder and rape. Meroni hated drugs, thought Falcone had been a fool for ever investing in them but they were…substantially lucrative, and to the weak minded money seemed a form of power. Men had their vices, and would pay exorbitant prices for their fulfillment. No. The drugs were here to stay. But given a monopoly, were the Family to control not one sector but all, he could eliminate the needless violence of gangs and drug related crimes that killed the youth of this city as surely as the childhood diseases modern medicine had saved them from. Violence could never be stopped entirely, but under the right master it could be _quelled_…

_There's only one way, but you already know what it is, don't you? Take off that mask and let him come to you._

The Batman had finally gotten the message: Gotham City belonged to him.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not! Perhaps now, after this tragedy, they would finally understand. He'd have to have a word with his 'source' about not spilling to the police her part in this awfulness-although unwittingly. It was a deed he himself regretted darkly. Assassinating a governor was one thing, but a terrorist attack with all heed to the innocent collateral? That was beyond the realms of usual evil. Naturally, as a woman and a mother she would be upset, if not distraught by this slaughtering of innocents. But if she wished to stay a mother to living children, if she wished her own mother in the nursing home a long and happy life, save herself the shame of prison…well, she'd do as she'd been told.

As she always had. Always would. Officer Anna Ramirez was not a patriot, not a fool. It was not misguided, grandiose idealism but her family's life she valued at whatever cost, and such bravery and courage, such unquestioning loyalty even the corrupt could respect.

…And most certainly take advantage of. How _fortuitous_, he recollected darkly, that Dent in his bloody rampage had spared her.

His right foot planted firmly he leaned forward, leaned until he felt that strain in his left foreleg, limbering that limb from its spasms and pain. But truth be told his devious mind wasn't focused on the exercises, as important as they were. Today there were more pressing things, more pressing things than even his own less-than-trivial suffering that must be contemplated.

He'd accepted three million for the placement of Guerrero's men and equipment. Rocket launchers…that meant they'd made the trip to Old Town. Stalton was a free agent, to be sure, and Styx Slaughterhouse had long since been a neutral territory where the worst of Gotham could entertain their violent vices with dogfights and gambling, that is, before the Batman and that arrogant young DA had turned the game on its head. That fool Gambol had spent many long nights there. And while it had made more economic sense to band together with other such leaders in this city to quell violence and negotiate territories, dealings with such scum had always left a bad taste in his mouth. Gambol had been little more than a glorified gangster, one of those rap scene icons these modern generations swooned over. The man was a thief and a murderer, and there had been things about his personal life that sent even philanderers like himself grimacing in disgust. And these Latin Kings. Latin pigs, more like. The Puerto Ricans, like the Blacks, shared a taste for the flamboyant and over stated, enjoyed their leather and chains, outrageous fashions and piercings, their violence and guns. Meroni's men, even he himself, had rudimentary skills with a firearm and he was protected wherever he went…but those fools thought that power came from Hollywood at the end of a improperly held Kalishnikov.

True power was something you couldn't measure in guns or showy threats of violence. True power was the ability to make a well placed phone call and receive whatever you demanded, from whoever you demanded it. True power was executing a man before a Judge and fearing no repercussions. It meant knowing which of the men in your employ were CI's for the FBI, and having nothing to fear…true power made one the _master._ It was not something that could be bought or sold, something you could trade…true power, as respect, was something that must first be earned.

Yet something had gone wrong with Guerrero's plan. Something larger, more deadly was afoot, to which, as Meroni naively thought, only the Joker knew the answer. It was indeed, an increasing and evermore dangerous game…

He sat, massaging his aching limbs. He would need all his strength, all his resources and all his cunning. A storm was coming, and he must be ready. Yet the family could weather it. Would weather it, as they had done all others. Gambol was dead. The Chechen was dead. It had been he and he alone who had remained, and would remain, firm.

For all his musings and prowess, Mafioso Salvatore Meroni was a fool. As Kingpin and Ivanovitch had tentatively made their stands and replaced Gambol and the Chechen, he himself had once been an underling, chaffing under the realm of a higher lord, Falcone. And now, unbeknownst to him, there were powers descending upon Gotham a man such as him could never dream of, powers that had visited before, had crushed the former Mafia don of the Sleepless City, left him gibbering and rotting in the cold, dark basements of Arkham Asylum.

Meroni looked out at the spreading city, 100 floors above the ground, lit a cigar, tilting his head back to ponder his growing power. Yet elsewhere in that self-same city, Carmide Falcone sat quivering on a simple mattress in a bare room, unresponsive, completely catatonic as he had for nearly two years, whispering ever that self-same word:

_"Scarecrow. Scarecrow. Scarecrow…"_

* * *

**13: 17 EST**

**Beijing**

As Salvatore Meroni surveyed his kingdom, another man, indeed, another crippled by the Batman's own hands, sat half a world away, contemplating the elevating chaos of Gotham City via CNN's real-time portal on the worldwide web. Yet unlike Meroni who could only speculate on dreams of wisdom and power, he had them both in abundant possession.

He was Solomon of Isreal. Alexander of Macedonia. Rameses II of Egypt. And like those great men before him he sought to change the face of the globe. There were few people in the world who knew of his existence. Fewer still knew him by name. Even his most loyal servants knew him under disguise or false pretenses. His aliases were numerous, as were his false international papers. Not easily faked in this modern era of advanced technology, his cause too high to be thwarted by the inconvenience or the costs of obtaining authentic documentations he had contacts, his organization had many contacts within governments worldwide who for the right price could supply visas, passports, even US social security numbers…

Greed. How easily were they manipulated. How he had grown sick of their immorality. And yet for the Greater Good, how long had he endured them!

Ah, greed. The vice that crippled all species, even his own, the desire, the hunger, the thirst and lust not for sufficiency but for _more._ Gluttons. Insatiates. Returning as lab rats to nicotine or ethanol, consumed by their addiction at last. As goats ate themselves to explosion so had generations of mankind, glutted and swollen upon gold and furs, gasoline and oil pipelines, modern medicines and comforts while those in the developing world died still of diseases of infancy long since cured and curable…

America. The evils and horrors of humanity made manifest, laid bare. Hated by the world, ridiculed, mocked, called ingrates and infidels, both bully and master…and yet still paradoxically she took in the poor, the tired, the hungry, the sick…across the globe the fortunate left their own countries seized by violence and war, starvation and sickness for those more affluent. Britain. France. Australia, yes, but it was the United States where all hoped to flock. An unholy pilgrimage to the worship of Hollywood, to a cultureless culture, so shallow and yet so deep with the wisdom and heritage of Greece and Rome…

But Lady Liberty had long since fallen from grace, those ideals that once strengthened her now nothing but hearsay, which some politicians made lip service to, and others simply scorned. Monroe Doctrine. Policeman of the world. Declaration of Independence, where all men where given the right to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness…that it is the right of the people of a sovereign country to rise up against their government when their human rights are oppressed. And by extension, that it is the right-it is the duty-of the citizens of these sovereign nations to pursue that self-same manifest destiny across the globe…and yet.

And yet America grew stuporous in her vigil. The country which swore to uphold the integrity of her hemisphere could interfere in Columbia to her own ends, build a canal for the transport of her endless trade yet lay slumbering like a sleeping giant, deaf to Europe's pleas in that War in End All Wars…until Shadows had tickled Wilson's ears, sending military supplies under the guise of a passenger ferry, while simultaneously informing the Kaiser's naval blockade, sending the Litsutania and her passengers to the depths. And even then how quickly was she forgotten! Less than half a century later America balked at her responsibility until her own citizens were butchered on the sands of Pearl Harbor. Expedient. A necessary sacrifice. Had Shadows not intervened with the Japanese High Command, tickled the Emperor's ears with thoughts of expansion and natural resources, never having to bow and slaver to these barbarians again-!, how the face of the globe might have been otherwise.

As it was they had almost been too late. Even after that ominous climb to Mt. Nitaka, the Americans had nearly lost the war. Had Hitler's scientists outpaced the MANHATTAN project…

MANHATTAN. What began as war time emergency, a horrific lost of human life, a terrible cost to end a war but an end nonetheless had become routine. So commonplace it was nearly forgotten. Now every government in the world clamoured after these arms, wishing the power and influence, the fear which accompanied them and the threat of their use. Every contingency plan brought their use into play, weighing the prerogatives to determine if a crisis indeed merited their use…

America. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave. The Blind, Dumb and Deaf. The hearts of her lethargic masses as cold as the chilled iron of the USS Arizona, sunk those eighty-nine years before. The world was in turmoil, a Colder War, nation against nation, nuclear holocaust lying as a burning sun against the glowing horizon, but the American populace sat slumbering again, content with their fast food, ipods and Nike shoes stitched by the hands of starving children, too engrossed in their own petty problems and celebrity idolatry to care.

No, no America functioned out of greed, using her God-given right to spread democracy when and where it was convenient, as long as GALLOP still showed her politicians it was the popular thing to do. A canal here, and oil pipeline there, she changed the face of the globe, bowed countries to the ever-pressing need of her gluttonous demands…

…Or tragedy. Americans needed tragedy to unplug their ears, open their eyes, to blink in the startling sun of chaos and death to find theirs was an artificial world at best, that there still existed poverty, need, want, and the corruption and evil, the violence and genocide that drove them to be. Yes, yes America needed tragedy. Needed to be reminded of the cost of Bunkerhill, Shiloh, Gettysburg, Verdun, Normandy and Iwo Jima…that freedom, unlike her fast food and instant demand consumerism, did not come at a discount, we honor our competitor's coupons price. It demanded Time. Sacrifice. Tears. Sweat. Blood…

Yes, yes America needed tragedy in order to truly fulfill her purpose.

It was Oswald who shot and killed the American's president. It was the American presidents who had begun this arms race, this silent assault, this stockpiling of weapons against the USSR. The Cuban Missile crisis should have shown those two superpowers the escalating dangers of mixing nuclear weapons with mutual distrust…but alas, it had not. And just as that crisis began to cool it was JFK who sent Cuban men back to their home country without the support they needed to prevail, to spread democracy at last…and that pitiful attempt had fallen, massacred in the Bay of Pigs, angering millions. The American president must be stopped. Johnson was a milder man, would learn from his predecessor's mistakes. It had been Oswald who assassinated the American president…as it had been the Shadows who in turn killed Oswald.

It was a pity, was it not, that the means to abate this crisis had not existed then, that such a great man should meet such an end? It was watch and wait. Sacrifice and pray. Intervene as they always had done, small stroke here, another there, hoping to turn the world from annihilation…and how utterly had they almost failed! Barely had the shadow of the Third Reich fallen when an Iron Curtain fell hard and fast to the North and East, the research of Hitler's nuclear physicists hidden under her veil. Who could have foreseen the sudden spread of communism, that comraderie would spring up across the stretches of the globe, that that upstart Castro in a country of no great importance save its geographic proximity to the United States could have changed the face of the globe?

Oswald. The man had been a sociopath. A criminal. No more than scum. But he had proved useful in the end. As had countless thousands through the millennia, bad men, redeeming themselves through one last, heinous act while they themselves were unawares. Men like that John Wilkes Booth... He had no doubts what karma these men had earned, this one last defiant act, though for the greater good, done simply through their crazed bloodlust and greed. How odd, how divine, what perfect, unobtainable justice was it that though for the Greater Good these last unwitting acts only sealed their place for eternal torment? It was beyond mortal measure to comprehend, and he consoled himself with the wonder than it was a man's motives, his heart, that dictated the barbaric nature of an act or not. What was murder to millions, damnation of the soul, could be simply a tool of a deeper righteousness in the hands of a servant of a Higher Calling.

His greatest pupil had not understood. Too blinded by sentimentality to see that in war there must be sacrifices. That the cost of peace was blood. In order to maintain order and the sanctity of man there must be justice for wrongs done…and it must be exacted harshly. Swiftly. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A life…for a life. No. And as Bruce Wayne had failed to pass that first test he'd failed a second as well, for he had not understood the precious sanctity of life. Not of lives, but of _Life_. Sacrifice did not come easy, and even in Sodom and Gomorrah had there not been righteous and innocents? But the sins of the fathers are recompensed down generations. There were many who lived in Gotham who deserved to die. Many still who had died and deserved life, but it was impossible to return it to them…

Henri Ducard was not a murderer. Not a religious zealot who took delight in slaughter. No, no the League of Shadows was not swift to deal out death and judgment. But when it was exacted, when innocent blood must be spilt, it was because innocent blood had already been shed by the unjust, and yet the severity of their sufferings had been ignored. The innocent served as collateral, as that Ghandi had seen so well, until the cry of their blood, like Abel's, could no longer be ignored. It was then that men decided truly between good and evil, choose either to act in complicity or defiance to the powers that made the world thus…

For now, even now, as the world teetered toward nuclear destruction, it had been his to send this final warning. As the crisis unfolded in Gotham City, his agents in the Chinese politburo were acting, sending the Dragon of the East into testing her prowess, beginning pre-emptive mobilizations for the war that might follow, securing in public eye her guilt. For he had made sure, had he not, that the drugs, like the missing weapon, could be traced quite legitimately to the shipping ports of Shanghai? Crossing the great Pacific Ocean to that very same Canal that Roosevelt had built, then up, up the coast to Gotham City-?

Such was their punishment for toying with World War III. At the worst, he would escalate the inevitable, pit them against each other in nuclear destruction until they realized the horrific cost. America would win, for the rest of the world would not sit idly by to watch the People's Republic become their master. No, no suspicions would be too great, and the Bear of the North would descend upon her neighbor with ferocity and retribution. Millions would die, he had no doubt, millions of lives extinguished suddenly and irrevocably, and more would suffer the burns, the radiation sickness, the crippling effects of the aftermath of Chernobyl or Hiroshima…but subsequent generations would be saved from destruction. No one again would find strength nor security in nuclear supremacy.

Yet at this his heart grew cold. It was better to hope, was it not? It was better to hope that with this suspicion instead that America would mobilize, as had they in every war past, invading Iraq in that Persian Gulf War for her reneging the treaty with Kuwait-? Yes, yes it was better to hope that her stuporous citizens would again be aroused, calling out in the streets not only for blood but _reform_, for _intervention_, for _justice!_ That they would cease to pay for the Dragon's products, that their furious voices would drown the weak and feeble UN, that regardless of world opinion and economic hardship would place sanctions on that nation, sanctions for the war crimes, government sponsored terrorism, human rights violations, the murdered babies, the sexual slavery and kidnappings across her neighboring countries to make up for the baby girls they themselves had slaughtered-?

Could the fear, the potentiality of MAD, drive the United States to do what it should have years ago when Mao Zedong first rose to power, when Tibet was taken forcibly, or students massacred in Tiananmen Square? That MacArthur had understood, had he not? And if only he had been more influential in Korea those weapons of mass destruction would have fallen upon the Dragon as well. Terrible, yes. But great. And the deaths of those hundreds of thousands would have spared the lives of millions of Chinese nationals, butchered instead slowly by their own government through years of starvation and forced social progress. Could the death of Gotham bring about the awakening of the conscience of the American people, the liberation of 1.6 billion Chinese citizens to the human rights and equality long denied them?

Like the Roman Eagle before her, America was kind to her foes. As Rome's legions savagely conquered kingdoms, they granted rite of protection and citizenship in exchange for taxation. Blood of hundreds of thousands in exchange for the price of peace…if the Eagle were aroused again, she would make allies out of enemies, friends from her foes. She would rebuild. Restore. Renew.

A Pax Americana: _World Peace_.

If only Bruce had understood. But his gaze had been too narrow, his countenance too weak. Rebuilding Gotham? Stop the Violence? Oh, Bruce, if you could but see, could taste and know the horrors of not only a city but the world, that to solve the crisis of one city you must solve the problems of them all-!

Glancing down through the polluted air to the crowded, dirty streets below teeming with bicycles and parasols, a colorful, tempestuous human tide, Henri Ducard reflected silently the thoughts of all great men before him: _Si vis pacem, para bellum. _

It was with pity, with pity not scorn Ra's al Ghul reflected on his greatest of pupils. _You would leave a man to die, would you not, Bruce, for demanding justice against a murderer, thou shalt not kill? But we are not murderers. We are a government, yes, a world government. A democracy, even, appointed by her peoples. Appointed like you, a watchdog, a protectorate, appointed by the masses slaughtered in Darfur and Bosnia, appointed by the corruption of the governments in Beijing and la Ciudad de Mexico. Appointed, as your Batman, by the good men of the world who in fear or laziness have stood by and let evil men take power..._

But the Batman, like Bruce, was not a killer. His survival bore witness to this fact. A killer would be better trained. Would know if he truly wished a man's death, he must accomplish it with his own hands or bear witness with his eyes. But Bruce had not, searing his consciousness of not killing by leaving circumstance to do what he himself could not bear, weak, foolish, and illogical. For he, Henri Ducard, Ra's al Ghul, had escaped from that hurtling car…

Seconds before collision he had jumped. Relied on years of training and biomechanics to soften the impact, lessen the blow, absorbing the shock through bones which he knew would shatter and pain which seared through nerves which might regenerate with time-?

That his injuries had been, were still…severe…he would not deny. Perhaps a punishment for his own nearsightedness, perhaps not, for Karma, like tribulation, worked in mysterious ways unfathomable to the minds of men. Mind your surroundings, look to the greater good. In his disappointment and anger had let those emotions consume him, forgetting he possessed a higher calling, a larger task at hand. Now for two years he had recuperated, recuperated at the hands of the world's finest physicians and healers, waiting, praying, learning patience and long-suffering for his rashness. For bones knit. Scars faded. Yet nerves grew back with agonizing slowness, less than a centimeter a month…

For two years he had been patience's pupil. Learned at her knees like a suckling babe. And now he released his masterstroke. For now, at last, the time was right, the harvest ready, the world standing upon the brink…

His heart quickened. The phone was in his hand before it could so much as ring. "Talia?"

"The plan proceeds." Was her cryptic reply, and the line went dead.

Ra's al Ghul/Henri Ducard brought his hands to his face, a long, long sign of release and regret emptying from his weary lungs, left in dread at this awful moment, this infinite crisis over all the earth—

The time was _now._

He looked to the window, out to the masses gathered before the American Embassy surrounded by soldiers keeping watchful eye, the best and worst of humankind laid bare. Infinite wealth and impoverished squalor. Outpouring of grief and statuesque stoicism, all mingling in the wide street now littered with automobiles and bicycles, signs and solidarity of the nations…

_O Absalom, would I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!_

It was enough to make him weep. How many innocents must perish for peace to reign? Could not rather those young men lay down their arms and join in with the mourning? He was not a murderer. Made himself feel the death of every man, woman and child, regretted his duty, regretted but did not shirk, sent them to whatever fate they might, as a general sends his men to war. For this was a war, a war _to end all wars_…

Henri Ducard gripped the smooth cellular phone, heart going out to his daughter's voice, that tangible link to Gotham City and the dead therein, to the young man he knew so well, a student like a son who he must chastise, as regretfully as he must watch these faceless millions die…

He had forgiven. Waited as a father for his prodigal's return. Yet deep within his heart he feared Bruce could never kill unless he was first destroyed. His pupil lacked the capacity to comprehend, and it would be destruction, not conversion, of his soul that would sway him from his course. As it had been anger that drove him to the underworld of crime, rage against injustice that had landed him in that prison in Bhutan, it was that same bloodlust preventing his fruition. _Oh, Bruce, simply because the justice demanded, the retribution deserved would bring you personal satisfaction does it make the action any less just? You must put aside your feelings. Lay aside your anger. Be consumed with a righteous fire instead…You must learn to let go. Must become something more. Until you do you will only ever be a man, a weak man, a costumed man playing the vigilante as atonement for your parent's death…_

The mission was perhaps futile, yet he had to try. A man like Bruce Wayne possessed influence in the American politics and military, and her celebrity social spheres as well. His allegiance, his part in this Pax Americana would be astronomical. And so the Shadows sent a messenger, a messenger as they had before, a gospel and an invitation to repent and return. And unwitting and evil man, an unholy, unmourned martyr, to do the bidding of a higher righteousness.

Here, finally, was a fire that could refine. Purge dross from gold, a furnace whose heat would purify the Batman's ideals, until truth and justice and they only remained. For this was not the crude hammer with which they had so long chiseled nations or men, not an Oswald or Booth, Bismark or Tojo. No, no this was a refined stylus of adamantine and diamond, an accidental discovery, a gift from the Gods, formed for one purpose and one only, a tool that would never _destroy_, merely _define_, his young apprentice's existence.

And now, even now, that man was sitting alone in Arkham Asylum like a tool placed upon a shelf, waiting, ready to be taken in hand and put to use: John Doe #387, Alias the Joker. Real Name Unknown.

* * *

**13:31 EST **

**Arkham Asylum**

The Joker didn't know why the lights had flickered so.

Alright, that was a lie. The _why _was easy. The _why_ was somewhere, someone or something in Gotham had messed with the power grid. The TV had fizzled out into a tiny blip, and the shadowy lights filtering from the hall had all but extinguished. All across Arkham, the backup generators had begun to hum.

The _when _was easy, too: 12:17 PM,. EST, CT, Greenwich, Zulu, yadayada. AD, anno Domnini, or CE, for Kant's Cunning Enlightenment, who 250 years after his death convinced some twentieth century narrow minded morons that changing the name of an event to something more politically palatable would look great on the voting record. Common Era. How utterly..._bo-_ring. And what common era would that be, hmmm? Why, the one marked by a supposed historical event important enough to document the issuing in of a ideology and social change so radical and important it had changed the face of the globe and marked this period of history different from all preceding it, and of such significance to name an era after, of course! But despite all that apparently not significant enough to explain to kids in public school what exactly was so damn important about 't want to upset momm-y and dadd-y with all that seperation of church and state, now would we?

And he thought his jokes were _baaad._..what was the point of school if no one learned how to think-kuh? But this _was_ the same country who venerated Benedict Arnold's leg even though that name still shared a popularity rating with 'Adolf' and 'Judas' centuries after the traitor's death. And if life made sense…well, if people would see _sense_ they wouldn't need little old _him_, now would they?

Oh no. Not need him at all. But he'd show them. Show them all. He'd shut down the schools. Oh yes. Show these gibbering Gothamites what it meant to think-kuh...what it meant to_ choose_...

But the _where _was the answers to several questions, each as unsolvable as the last, for it was also the _how._ Had it been done locally, an attack on the asylum itself? His would-be-saviours at last coming to claim him-? Or was it an external circuit, the grid gone down, their sector ruined by the fires or downed lines…or had they been cut, cut by the police and utility companies to purposefully plunge the city into darkness-?

The _what_ was easier. By far the easiest of them all. _It's elementary, my dear Batman_. The what means that that power was down, and in the several seconds it took for the generators to come to full speed the doors kept under electromagnetic seal would all remain _locked _as safeguard, the security cameras still in operation on their closed circuit, and no one, no one could escape. But men were so fickle. So untrusting of even their beloved technology, apt to act on instinct and a deep gut feeling within themselves. Oh yes, _fear._ And in the hour long panic as security abandoned their posts, as patients shrieked in terror, as the crowd's chanting of _JokerJokerkilltheJoker-!_ swelled like a symphony in his elated ears as he conducted their fury with sweeping, graceful hand gestures from on high…he was _free_.

The doors still sealed, all necessary measures to ensure security still in place, while everyone rushed to ascertain the maximum security prisoners were indeed where they should be, while security ran to the main doors to maintain the perimeter against the growing throng, as national guardsmen cleared the way for ambulances and shots were fired into Gotham's oh-so-sweet and innocent civilians, the head of security-one of two who knew of the Joker's true whereabouts-ran to Morrison's cell afraid to learn the truth, frightened lest his prisoner had indeed escaped, fumbled with the keys in fear, thrown open the door-

Blow to the back of the head. Two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and sinew came tumbling down, sprawled helpless and heedless upon the floor.

The first Joke he'd told in months…_Slapstick_. So below him. But the irony still made him laugh, deadly waves of chuckles in the dark…

No need to kill. Merely stun. Disarm. "Hey, uh, thanks a bunch!" He quipped to the unconscious guard. "It would've been a bitch tryin' to get outta here on my own, ya know."

Take keys, radio. Lock the bastard up where he'd be found, crying, sobbing, perhaps even committed suicide because patient #10674, alias the Joker, madman, murderer, most wanted, had finally done what he had dreaded from the first moment the clown had stepped foot in his facility: escaped. It was fear that drove man to desperation, fear what made him mad, fear that showed him despite thousands of years of cities and civilizations that he was indeed no more, no less, than a pathetic, naked animal, capable of taming beasts, charting seas, mapping the moon…and unable to quell even the tiniest, most basest of emotions.

_Know thine enemy_. The Joker mused merrily, locking the cell door behind him with flourish. _Know…thyself._ _And a little bit of biophysics wouldn't be so hmm...bad either._ These guards had been hired for brawn, not brains, and thousands of years of study in martial arts had proven time and time again it wasn't the size nor strength of the man that mattered, it was the body and the blow. 250 pounds of muscle, years of aggression defense training…all easily undone by a swift strike to the motor tract on the back of the neck.

Free to wander the darkened halls of Arkham at will, the Joker didn't even bother to slither from shadow to shadow in the dim stretches of the emergency backup lights. Instead he strolled, humming through the empty hallways as though a lord surveying his fiefdom, ready to pay a very special-scrawny-someone a um, _visit._

It was time to make some especially _serious _accusations.

* * *

**Wayne Enterprises, Research and Development Archives**

At that same moment, the express elevator to a hidden floor under Wayne Enterprises came skittering to a halt, stopping stock still in the darkness. With a roar the Batman forced open the ceiling, clamored on top the car, climbed hand over hand up the oiled lines to the floor above, and with a shooting shower of sparks and the grating screech of metal on metal, the doors of storage and service floor shuddered open.

Ignorant that both he and his foe were but unwitting pawns in the hands of a higher master, the Batman moved on, adrenaline like rage consuming him like a holy fire. The pod had sat, gleaming and polished for nearly a year, idle and restless with disuse. No longer. Fueled by her rider's rage and haste, she roared through the streets of Gotham, heedless of the shouts of National Guardsmen to stop, unwary of the shouts and shots that followed her, glorying in the speed which was life, the rise of fall of pounding pistons, the shriek and burn of tire against asphalt, laughing in the fury and thrill of the chase.

* * *

**13:35 EST  
**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"Mr. Pennyworth-?" Amy Lawless asked hesitantly, unable to tell if the old man was sleeping or awake…and if awake, in what frame of mine-?

"Ah, there you are." He said, quite coherently. "I understand that you and other hospital staff are extraordinarily busy-"

Amy dropped her stethescope through fumbling fingers. "You're…you're…you're really awake, then."

"Yes," The elderly gentleman replied. "And I am in the hospital, which, I do not know, but the day is-or should be-Monday, August 19th, 2030…but judging from the outside light it is Tuesday. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I am a British citizen in the employ of the Wayne family, and if that satisfies you of my mental status it is imperative I ask several questions of my own."

"He's been here." She said quietly, guessing his inquiry. "Bruce. He was here less than an hour ago."

"Ah." The man said, looking-to her surprise-not alleviated but alarmed. "And did he leave a message for me?"

She shook her dark head. "No. He, he left in a bit of a rush."

"I see. And would it be possible to send someone to your security department for my personal belongings? I must make an urgent call-and these do not appear to be working-"

"The power's been cut." Amy Lawless said. "The whole city. Everything. We're on back up generators now….I'm sorry."

"Ah." He gestured to the blank flatscreen television mounted on the far wall. "And that would be why the news hasn't worked as well."

"Is there anything else I can get for you? Food? Newspaper?"

"Newspaper?" Alfred asked, thinking of distracting himself with Sudoku. "Yes. Please. I suppose physician orders of release are simply out of the question?"

She smiled at his mannerisms, frankness, and sincerity. This man, however old, and under however much stress, still maintained his wits about him….and yet something was wrong. Something more than dementia or displacement. Alfred Pennyworth was completely sane, completely lucid…and utterly worried.

He reminded her of Aaron. _Her_ Aaron. Dominant yet gentle. Charismatic. In charge. Fiercely loyal and protective. And when men like that were worried…well, it was like hearing a large dog go from barking viciously to whining in the dark.

…and that scared the shit out of her.

"Mr. Pennyworth, is there something wrong?" Amy Lawless asked nervously.

"No," He shook his head. "No, everything is...quite fine. I shall…I shall simply wait here."

But everything was not fine. And Alfred Pennyworth would wait, nine hours, like seven years, fretting and worrying against evermore unlikely odds, while the voice of a young girl he once knew and loved echoed hauntingly inside his head:_ Then he said…then he said 'all my life I've w-wa-wanted to k-kill him…a-and now I c-can't-!'  
_

His only hope, his only wish, his only prayer, was that Bruce Wayne, this time, would make that decision for himself…Make that choice no one else could make. The _right_ choice. But like the Wayne Legacy Foundation's charity work during those seven endless years of Bruce's absence, no amount of 9 by 9 grids, beginner, intermediate, or advanced, could ever even begin to distract him.

* * *

**AN: The plot thickens...too many terrorists! Ugh! Quick, someone send me a funny joke (NOT magic pencil tricks!!) or a link to a great, light-hearted Batman the Animated Series fic, please! Oh yeah, I guess you could also leave a review, as those cheer me up as well…**

**The next chapter is Paltron, and it's about ready to go. Expect an update sometime this weekend!**


	21. Sanctuarium

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just, we much ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: Yes. I know. How realistic is it that both Meroni AND Ducard managed to escape alive from their respective killers? AND Anna Ramirez went uncaught and unpunished? Not likely. But this is fanfiction, where by definition anything's possible…and there's only so many original (or quasi-original, because this is fanfiction and by definition unoriginal) ideas a girl can come up with!**

**But on a less self-cynical note and without further ado: More Paltron, as promised!

* * *

**

**05:00 EST**

**Friday, August 30th**

**Lawless Residence**

_Crumbling concretedeafeningroar fallingbuilding screamingscreaming Angelisscreaming-_

I wake. Shaking. Sweating. The Legacy is over. I am alive. My eyes are open, staring, bold numbers from the alarm clock glaring in my face: 5 am. I lie still on my left side, my eyes roaming in the dimness. Where am I-?

…Lawless' house. Connolly's room.

And soft, warm breath whispers on the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine. Something warm, something human is laying next to me….

I freeze in fear. Afraid to turn. To move. To see.

There is a hand pressed lightly over mine, fingers soft and slender. A familiar hand, one that has held mine before during a day-long reign of darkness and doubt.…

I am Boaz. I must know. Gently I roll, stretch shaking fingers towards the thick comforter, slowly uncovering the face now next to mine-

_Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. He is pale under plaster and dust, splattered patches of skin cleared from his tears, congealed blood dry and clotted over his ruined cheeks and chin. I dream. And Angel's eyes are open, staring into mine. _

_Marred. But still beautiful. I reach a trembling fingertip to those horrific wounds and he smiles, small mouth filled with dark scaly scabs of sequestered blood. But I will not be deterred, even in death I adore him. My hand brushes his face, laid over those spreading scars, and his small fingers find mine. The blood is siphoned slowly, like ink blotted on paper, scabs turn to blood scarlet on my hand the wounds healing knitting shrinking until a perfect drop of deep red blood rolls up his face like a single tear. _

_And he is healed. Whole. A spotless, perfect lamb. I lean, bring his pale face to mine, heart-racing place a kiss on the tip of his nose, the breeze of my breath blowing back the dust and debris until his smooth skin is cleansed…_

_Hot breath against my face. Flesh warm under my hand. I trace one trembling fingertip down his nose, press its tip, his dark eyes adoring…then the light in them dies he is still and silent grows grey and cold my heart is racing racing racing faster in fear and his flesh is rent torn gaping peeling away from that perfect line I shudder cringe try to piece it together but it splits down tearing tissues bloody bone shredding skin stuck to my struggling fingers skull splits dead skin sloughing Angelcan'tdie I am screamingsobbing Angelscan'tdie-!  
_

…I am sitting up in a strange bed, clutching the covers, tears streaming silently into my open mouth, salty and bitter like the taste of blood.

I shudder. Blink. Cast wildly about. _Where am I? What day is it? Stalton's ex-general? The Joker? Has Angel been found-?_

But it is 5 AM. The house is silent, empty and dark, and no one is here for me to seek solutions.

Of three things only I am sure. I am Awake. I am Alive.

…I will never see my Angel again.

* * *

**05:11 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

The showerhead drones, swirls of steam rising. My fever is broken but I am chilled, that hollow face of my dreams before mine still. I shudder, rub the slick slime of soap against my skin, saturated with Angel's scent. There is a sudden draft, a slight rustle, something small moves on the other side of this thin curtain-

_Angel is pale, limp in my arms, wet hair hanging in touseled tangles. He nestles deeper into the thick folds of the towel as I carry him to the bed. He stirs, blinks, stretches for me. He is Sleepy. Near senseless. Stirring fretfully. I pull a GCPD shirt down over his head, guide his tiny fingers through the holes for the hands. He is so delicate, so fragile, limp and trusting like a porcelain doll, flawless face, beautiful boy…but no doll was ever so soft and warm, no painted eyes ever so poignant. Soft palm curling gently around my finger, lips brush the bridge of his nose, gently tuck the pillow under his dark head. _

_I run my fingers through his curly hair, damp drops cool against my skin. And I kiss him, kiss him, eyes closed, soft, smooth skin against my mouth, eight long years of goodnights and goodbyes… curve of his cheek, sudden bridge of his straight nose, arch of his cheekbone, the soft, smiling corner of his tiny mouth…_

_He sighs. Warm air against wet tears. I open my eyes, whisper his name, and I stare, drowning in the depths of his dark eyes, my Angel, my child, my…_

…_baby boy. I whisper. _

_His doe-like lashes finally flit shut, chest rising and falling, breath warm and deep. _

_Downpouring water blood sweat fearheartbreakloneliness washing away, the tub stained pink with afterbirth. Angel lies sleeping in my bedroom as I cleanse myself of my crimes. Four men. Dead. Four heartless, childfucking men. The world will not mourn them. Neither will I. _

_But I fear…what? Retribution? The evidence was destroyed. That my sins will find me out? It was not sin, it was justice, poetry, instinct…a mother's love. I am not sorry, will not be sorry, will never repent of that dark deed…_

…_no. I fear only for Angel. To lose him…lose him like everything else I've ever loved. I will protect him, I say, protect him no matter how high the cost, no matter what the price love him horribly desperately eternally and God help, God fucking help any bastard who tries to harm him…_

_Water pours, steam rises. The showerhead too loud to hear the click of the latch, feet across the floor. But I know something is wrong. Gut instinct. Primal rage. Steam moves suddenly draft from the open door -!_

_Swish of curtain click of safety Art's Berretta in my quaking fist finger taut on trigger and waves of cold, cold shock and nausea… _

_Water pounds. _

_Rage. Shock. Horrible, horrible guilt: Angel-! _

_Angel stands dripping and pale, yawning sleepily, squinting his elfin eyes, and slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly he reaches, places tiny fingertips against the gun's cold muzzle, only inches from his upturned, expectant eyes. _

…_he is young. So young, so innocent…so goddamned naïve. Does not know that death awaits, cold and unfeeling in the barrel, a 9mm hollowpoint parabellum resting irreversibly, one twitch of a finger away where no amount of love, tender kisses or cuddling close could ever hope to staunch its flow. But he does not understand. Does not know what it is I hold-_

_Move the nuzzle, click the safety, shaking hands, shaking hands drop it gently on the back of the toilet, stare in disbelief in shock at the Angel before me._

_He is staring at the gun. At a mother's plaything…he is intrigued, he is curious…but not afraid. _

There is a presence. Small and still, perched on the toilet rim, watching me closely through the shadow of the curtain…

…_Angel?_

I pull it back, hold it against my ruined body, and the upturned, expectant hazel eyes of Ian Anthony Lawless stare into mine.

* * *

**05:17 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Auburn hair tousled, reddish freckles on milk-white face. Cop onesies with a proud, bold star emblazoned on the chest, clutching a ratty cinnamon bear as big as he is, one lanky calico arm draped pathetically into the open toilet lid: Ian Lawless.

We stare, speechless.

"You're not Jimmy." He finally states.

So blunt. Matter of fact. So grown up from his child's mouth. "No." I say sadly. Shake my head. Blink back tears. You're not Jimmy, he said….

…_and neither are you._

And he leaves, leaves without another word, no backwards glance, leaves dragging that pathetic bear behind him, soggy smear trailing from the drowned limb. Naked, dripping wet and wretched I know that for him, like me, it is final now. There is no going back. Mommy and Daddy and those people he loves have told him a lie a lie a horriblefuckinglie but a stranger is in his brother's room, sleeping in his bed, standing in his shower…

…and now he knows: Jimmy's gone.

Gone. I shut my eyes against the down pouring water and I remember. _I remember holding him, bathing him, the slick feel of his silken curls sudsing with shampoo, the tiny prick of his nails as he bats my hands, the brush of wet lashes against my palm as I shield his fawning eyes…_

I am a mother. It is mine to remember…it is mine to avenge.

* * *

**05:45 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

The morning sun has not yet appeared, but its stain spreads brightly across the east horizon. I squint my eyes in the twilight of the house's shadow, grass a dark, dew-bejeweled carpet at my feet. Yet yards away it is pale and translucent, glistening in the first pale gleam of the breaking dawn. In the suburbs we are too far away to hear the city still screaming. There is no shadow, no smoke on the horizon. The day is carefree and young, not blackened with blood, the world renewed…and yet I am left still. Sitting in the shadows. The shroud of my sorrow will not be so easily lifted.

The dew is cold under my bare feet, the tattered ends of Lawless' baggy jeans hanging cordlike over them, soaking slowly up my legs. I sniff. Breathe the clean air. Untainted by petrol and exhaust, those scents of the city never forgotten. But I am not alone in my morning vigil. Ian Lawless sits forlornly on the small swing set, its red and white barber stripe poles offer him no solace. He hugs that stuffed bear nearly as tall as he, his tawny mop of curls all that is visible.

…should I go to him? Talk? Say I miss the young man who was his brother, too? That I've lost something as well, my family forever sundered, a scar that will never fully heal-?

Yet the words would sound insincere. He is three, and I am only the Mean Lady. The one who shows up at holidays and birthdays to talk briefly with his father, hand him a card then leave. I have never been a part of his life, the DaddyIanandJimmy that has defined his small, sheltered world. No. He is young. Innocent. Like my Angel was. And he has no idea the horrors that lie beyond the borders of his small yard kingdom, the evils of men like monsters who prowl outside the steel chain-rings of safety. He is young. Innocent. I am old and wretched.…and I will let him be.

The nascent sun peers over the horizon, its first warm rays finally reaching me. The dull wooden porch suddenly gleams a rich, red amber, spreading about me in a smooth, sanguine sea. _And Moses stretched out his hand, and the rivers of Egypt ran red with blood…_

Ten plagues. And yet it was only on the last that Pharaoh relented…the striking of the first born. My son lies dead in Gotham, corpse unburied and defiled. And all of Gotham's children are fair play. No frogs nor locusts, no boils nor flaming hail…the Devil knows the playbook. And has the liberty of ignoring the rules.

The swing-set squeaks. Rusted joints whining shrilly. I lift my eyes: Ian Lawless.

He will have a childhood. Innocent, happy, carefree. The cloud and Clown of darkness and despair threaten to overshadow him. Yet I am Atlas. I will lift this burden from his small shoulders…

…I'll send that Bastard back to Hell where he belongs. Along with anyone who had a stake in the Legacy. Everyone responsible. Anyone who profited. Anyone who knew and remained silent and in their silence secured the deaths of thousands…For such is the steep price of the sanctity of the human soul_: for he who sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed. _

The Joker made a jest of it, but I am death. I laugh last. Every cry, every scream, every gallon of burned, blackened blood down to the last drop I will exact, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life until nothing remains but a sickly splatter of viscous slime bright red and shocking scarlet with broken bones scattered over the surface like sunken shipwrecks…

I am Edmund Dantes. Vengeance is mine. I will repay. And then, only then, will the spirits of the dead of the Sleepless City finally rest in peace.

I shiver. My feet are waxen, wet, cold with the dew of this sacred ground where Angel walked, where Ian walks now. I will not let its sanctuary be defiled.

* * *

**6:30 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

A sudden sound. Screen door sliding back. I turn. Lawless stands in the door frame, small bundle in his arms, odd expression on his face.

"He wake you?" He asks. I shake my head. He grunts, shuts the door one-handed, juggling that struggling ball of cloth and fur. Clicking nails lolling tongue bright eyes flashing the mangy, maladroit puppy darts across the porch, racing off across the dew-stained grass.

"Since when have you had a dog?" I ask.

He shrugs gingerly, trying to sound careless. "Since last night."

I don't mean to be rude. Forward. But my presence here has caused enough strain, my presence has always caused enough strain on their marriage. And she-regardless of my opinion and distaste, regardless of her weakness, her selfishness, her shallowness-is Lawless' wife. And he loves her. He'd be a fucking idiot to let her go. "Your wife okay with it?"

We watch the dog in silence, skittering in a straight line across the yard to the swing set as though knowing, knowing intuitively it was brought here for a purpose, for a reason…_like me._

"Ames…Ames isn't sure it's time yet." He sighs, joints creaking as he lowers himself onto the step beside me. "Yeah. We'd…we'd talked about getting him a puppy. Distract him. Keep his mind off it, you know?" Lawless says lowly. "But I, I didn't think it was time…"

The cinnamon colored puppy trips over its own overlarge paws, lets out a yelp and an _uff-!,_ landing in a tumble at Ian's feet. Lawless watches hungrily as the boy stares, uncertain, at the yipping, quivering ball of fur before him, long tail whipping nearly to its nose.

A _puppy_. Like that Cinnamon bear. Gifts I never had the chance to give to Angel-

I sniff. Lawless continues. "But Gordon goddamn nearly ran the thing down last night. He stomped the brakes, and there he was, just sitting calmly in the road giving us this look like 'I'm gonna kick your ass.' .And I knew. I just…knew. Nora said not to touch it, and yeah, yeah he was a mess, thing's half-starved, had fleas and ringworm, oh _hell_-"

Lawless bolts from the porch as the puppy takes off, the stuffed toy in its mouth, dragging, tearing, shredding like a dog will do Ian is screaming, yelling, chasing it shouting _giveitbackgiveitback-!_

The thing zips through Amy's petunias, shaking the stuffing out of that toy Ian is sobbing and the goddamned dog runs straight to me, straight to me and looks at me through winking dark eyes. I think of Masterchief, of Red and Bear, of Masterchief's goddamn dog chasing decommissioned grenades....It drops the bear in my lap and prances off, flinging its paws and tearing circles through the lawn. I stand, limp across the dew-soaked grass to Lawless and Ian.

Strong arms hoisting him up, holding his son close to his chest, chubby cheek laid over his shoulder. "Hey, bud, it's alright, okay? He's just a puppy he doesn't know—"

I hand over the bear, and Ian snatches it, snatches it and wipes his streaming nose down the back of its head, gives that puppy a scathing glare, for a moment looking just like his mother, and whispers, "I _hade_ him. Do we gotsta keep him?" But the puppy doesn't know. Doesn't understand. Lopes giddily around us, yipping and rolling over on its back, long, rope-like tail whipping heedlessly against Lawless' legs. It's a surreal moment, for one split-second I think of Jon, think of the house and yard I haven't seen for nineteen years, think of the kids we never raised, the dog we never had, think if life had been fair if life had been kind it would be my husband, my child standing here with me in the early morning sun. But life, by definition, isn't fair. A life that is fair demands perfect justice, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life and that alone seems harsh and unyielding. And yet…life _is_ fair. It is not for all to exact justice. Not everyone is given chance as an avenging Angel.

Yet for my pain and suffering it has been granted. The scales of justice are in my palm. I will weigh. I will measure. And all found wanting I will destroy.

* * *

**6:45 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Ian has decided not to hate the dog.

Right now he is laughing, laughing and the sound is shrill but beautiful. It is freed. It _belongs_. Little boys are supposed to run and chase, fall into the dew-stained grass and squeal as the sticky slurp of dog slobber coats their sputtering, smiling faces…

That ratty bear lies in the mulch, stuffing coming out its overstretched arms, only Lawless' timely intervention into tug-a-war preventing it from shredding to pieces. Barefoot he grimaces through the flower garden, stooping to retrieve the forgotten toy.

Forgotten…like my Angel. The puppy has served its purpose, and I find myself chafing to begin with mine.

"Ames' mother gave it to him." Lawless explains sheepishly, sitting again beside me on that top wooden step. Amy's mother. Terminally ill, stage four breast cancer, metastises to her brain. She died at less than 80 pounds, not three days after the delivery of her only grandchild.

I would know. I went to the funeral.

_Emaciated. Skeletal. Aspiration pneumonia. The physician's friend, Lawless had called it. I shudder at the corpse in the casket, even dressed, painted, eyelids plumped it seems nothing but rags and ash. _

_Lawless stands beside the body, accepting hugs, teary-eyed apologies and stammers about 'your loss.' He takes them all in stride, nods kindly, thanks the visitors sincerely for their condolences. The funeral home is near empty, less than 30 people have come to pay their respects. Begrudging and dressed in black in a sick sort of way I'm glad I came. _

_More hand wringing, more thank you's, a meaningless ceremony devoid of all religious purpose, intent, or zeal. It is hollow and awkward. We all feel it. He nods wearily when he sees me, and I squeeze his shoulder, hard. He's put up with the hell of hospice these last three months. Good man. Good husband. _

"_Hey," is all I say. _

_But his wife is standing there, standing there with a week old baby in her arms. We haven't spoken since that ill-fated baby shower. At twenty-seven she holds the thing I want most in the world, the thing denied me since Warizistan, since they took my Angel: motherhood. And even had that exchange never occurred, those words never passed, I would still tremble under the overwhelming urge to reach out and punch her in that immaculate, emotionless face-_

_That bundle stirs in her arms, puffy lips yawning sleepily, eyes squinching shut. Ian Anthony Lawless. Pink and dreaming. Momentarily the only thing standing between me and charges of assault._

"_I'm…I'm sorry."I finally manage to offer. _

"_For what?" She states bitterly "She was old. She was sick. I'm the only one who'd take care of her and even then we were never close. Everyone's better off this way."_

"She'd kill you if anything ever happened to it?" I ask.

"No." He says, after an honest pause. "No Ames really wouldn't give a shit. But I'd feel like an _ass_, oh _Hell_-" he grimaces again. His young son is standing right beside him, peering up at him curiously, wondering at those words. Lawless' eyes roll up in chagrin. "What bud?"

"Can we keep him now?" Ian wheedles. "_Pleeeese_?"

Lawless winks. Feigns a frown. "I don't know bud, a puppy's an awful lot of work-"

"C'mon pleeese dad pretty pleeese dad-!"

"You'll have to _feed _him and _water_ him and give him _baths_-" Lawless enumerates each with the deadpan gravity of a space shuttle launch. "You'll have to let him _out_ and clean up after him-"

"C'mon _pleeese-"_ Ian counters, dancing excitedly. "I'm can take reals good care of him, dad!"

Lawless signs. Shakes his greying head. Concedes with an _I guess so_ as Ian squeals in excitement, jumping up and down while the dog licks the mulch on Lawless' toes. I watch as his son climbs up in his lap, gives him an enthusiastic, bouncing hug, one small foot pressed painfully against his groin. But Lawless doesn't even so much as flinch, holds his son against his chest, holds him tightly, breathes in the scent of his hair caught in that speechless, parental moment between laughter and weeping-

I look away.

Lawless' scratchy voice is impossibly gentle. "What are you going to call him, bud?"

* * *

**7:01 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

He has been talking for some time now. Trying to put it in words. How strange. Surreal. How fragile and fleeting is life...

...and how utterly do I know it. Yet I am silent. Listen. Listen as he talks to the empty air, eyes vacant and sad, mind full of memories, this yard full of ghosts...

But he is winding down to a close, something dark and sinister, heavy and sodden with grief. "I've done a lot of research, you know? History was always my thing. Yeah, I was doctor, all my undergraduate was science classes but I was in the American History Honors Society, can you believe that? God, that was so damn long ago-"

Yes. I can believe it. He is always writing. Always reading. Has even published a book. "Native Americans…some cultures names were recycled...they believed the spirits were reincarnated. Others never spoke that name or word again, death was taboo. You just couldn't talk about it. It was...it was like no one even wanted to think about death at all...some cultures worshipped it, some feared it, some feared it so much their languages didn't even possess a word…it's just so...weird." He finally states. "It's weird how people, how cultures handle death differently...and how little kids know how to handle it better than we can."

"_Fuck_." Lawless says vehemently.

Yet it strikes deeper than just a name. I tense. "You got the call, didn't you?"

"Yeah." He says, that bear tucked in his lap, arms holding it close. "Yeah, I did. Gordon…Gordon wants me to go."

"I'm going too."

He turns to me, eyes moist yet stony. No 'you shouldn't. don't need to see this.' It is his son, and mine. It is my right. My duty. And he will not deny me. Angel's death has left us weak and wounded…but together we are strong.

* * *

**7:20 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Steady rush. Somewhere a shower is running. I return to that room one last time, dress in Lawless' proffered clothes.

Angel's are too small for me.

I dress. Pack my things. Steal the mountain of medications on the nightstand. Cortical steroids. Inhaler. Three classes of broad-spectrum antibiotics…and enough hard narcotics to kill a horse.

I shudder. _Lawless? Dealing drugs-?_

But no. Like the veterinarian he visited in the late hours last night, he has many friends in many disciplines. Contacts. Resources. Well liked, well respected…trusted. He had merely to ask and the favors were granted. I stuff the bottles with toilet paper, muffle their rattling. And now the nightstand is empty, save Ian's old baby monitor, and a worn, beaten Bible. Hesitantly I reach out a hand, ask myself do I dare caress its cover or peruse its pages. Is its presence here a warning, or a gift-?

There is a note, a note on the inside cover, faint and faded with sweat and tears._ Jimmy,_ it reads_, if you have lost your faith in me, please don't lose faith in God. Read this and I think you will find the answers that you seek. Love, Maggie. _

Friend? Social worker? Lover-? My heart quickens, peruses that message for some hidden meaning, to decipher those words again in a way that makes anything but bitter sense. Who is this Maggie? How did she know my Angel?

…and does she know already how hollow and empty her hope and answers are. Whatever comfort he may have found, those words cannot console me.

The spine is broken, the binding torn. The pages fall open, marked with ink, highlighter, and the bitter, heart wrenching blots of tears_: _the book of Job.

…then something _falls, _flutters slowly to the distant floor. A scrap of paper, a makeshift bookmark, penned with his tiny script. Random strings of numbers and letters. Most-I find after a minute's reflection, are anagrams of his name or Lawless'. I read it hungrily, search for the loop of his j's and y's, the long, straight stroke of the l's, the even, soothing rows of m's and n's in his name…

They total twelve in number. My heart stops beating.

I know. I know, as clearly had Angel placed them purposefully in my hands. Something within me closes that book with reverence, lays it gently upon the stand, hand quivering as though burned, the light feel of his fingers brush against mine. Like Stalton's list screaming from my wallet, Angel's now sears my eyes: 12 passphrases, for 12 _months._

For this is not _Angel's_ room, not _Angel's_ Bible, not the childish scrawl of a schoolboy but the scripted lines of a meticulous young man. An Officer. Detective Jimmy Connolly. GCPD security mandates a change in pass phrases once every thirty days. A minimum of 15 characters, a combination of numbers, letters, capitals and special characters…and they must _never_ be shared, and most certainly never written down and left where prying eyes might see. But they're pain in the ass to remember. So they are written down, even Gordon is guilty of it. Written down and safely hidden. Some are foolish enough to tape them to the underside of desk drawers. The Prudent place them in home safes or safety deposit boxes. And the Innocent? The Innocent place them in something precious, something so personal they could never lose…

…And Angel-_Jimmy Connolly_-was Innocent.

I kiss that pillow. Say goodbye. Touch the surface of the bookcase, run regretful fingers down the spines of leather bound tomes, open the closet, pull a pressed uniform to my face, inhale deeply its lingering scent…or is that too, only my imagination? Angel is dead. Do the ghosts that have haunted my dreams now plague me waking as well-?

Smell is the most powerful sense of memory. Of emotion. I must leave. Leave soon, before it consumes me. I shut the closet. Smooth the bed. Take my things and leave this sanctuary as it was, empty and expectant, perfect and pristine, missing one thing and one only: Connolly's computer access codes. With one, long, backwards look, I cross the floor.

I stand in the doorway, reluctant yet ready. It is a long, dark road I will travel, but my Angel stands at the end.

I flick the light. Shut the door. I will not keep him waiting.

* * *

**7:31 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

I am dressed in Lawless' clothes, his oversized shoes, sitting with Ian at the table. I haven't touched my coffee. A calendar is posted on the refrigerator over the ice machine, but the rest…the rest is covered in papers. Bright blobs and stick-like figures, all blue and gold, a mess of squiggled red…

None but a mother could know. Lawless. Angel and Ian. I stand. Walk to the fridge, pull one of Ian's illegible crayon sketches from its place, adoring, the mess of colored wax across the paper safeguarding it against my sudden tears-

Movement. Frantic click of nails on hardwood floor. I turn, and Ian and Jimmybear are staring up at me.

"Hey," is all I say.

"Wanna pet my puppy?"

I don't have much choice. "Sure." I stoop, kneeling to my left knee, feeling the pupy's stiff, coarse coat. It is short and rusty, stretched taut over his thin ribs and bulging belly. The dog gently mauls my arm, teething and slobbering as I scratch behind his ears. A goddamned puppy. Like those goddamned popsicles. Something I never had the chance to share…

"Why are you crying for?" Lawless' living son asks shyly.

_Why am I crying?_ I ask. _I'm crying because I'm here in this house with you and your father and the puppy Angel never had the chance to have, crying because I wanted kids and a husband just a fucking baby and a husband had a baby and a husband and lost them both…_

I shake my head. Dry my tears. Look into his bashful, freckled face and whisper, "I like your pictures."

* * *

**7:40 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

Lawless is showered and dressed. Picks up a slumbering Ian from the kitchen floor and puts him back to bed. He pours himself a traveling mug of coffee while I drain my own tepid cup. We are ready.

The front door closes with finality. I am leaving. I will not be coming back. I turn, take it all in, memorize this hallowed haunt, a surreal sanctuary like that lingering scent still on Angel's pillowcase…

Our old cruiser. I climb in. Shut the door. The seatbelt again lays against my breasts. With a pang I realize this is no longer _my_ seat. It was-and will always be- my son's. Lawless opens the driver's side door as his wife comes sprinting down the cobbled walk hastily tying her robe.

"Where are you going?" She asks, wet hair still slick and soapy.

"Call came in." Lawless grunts. "Gordon wants me to check it out."

Her blue eyes flick to me. "She's going with you?"

"Yeah." Lawless says. "She's coming with." She sighs, upturns her face, kisses him, soft skin pressed against the stubble of his beard. Touches his chest. Tells him be careful…a backwards glance. Our eyes meet, and hold. She is the wife. I the mother. She will not stop us from going together to visit his grave.

The engine hums. Lawless throws her in reverse, and we glide down the driveway, his wife standing alone in the front yard, hand held up, squinting in the sun, long hair dripping and damp, one white arm waving goodbye.

We round the corner. The house is lost. I settle back into Connolly's seat. In mid-morning traffic it is a ninety minute ride to the Narrows. The suburbs disappear, neat rows of drab houses and trees with the occasional park or obsolete cornfield like vestigial scars of a by gone era. Wordlessly we pull out onto the highway, the air suddenly choked with fumes and the angry wails of road-rage horns.

The cement is grey and dry, wavering before the dash in the heat of exhaust and the August sun. It stretches for miles upon miles, a broad, ugly furrow in the green earth, funneling us all towards the distant haze of Gotham City…

It is fitting. Wide is the gate, and broad the way that leads to Perdition.

* * *

**AN: Happy almost Birthday, Ernestina! Although what is says about my subconscious that I first published this fic on Valentine's day I'm not quite sure...that, I believe, is better left to the realms of scary people like Crane and Quinzel (spelled right for the first time in this fic ever!). I shall meddle not in their secrets!  
**


	22. Eros

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: **_**to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**_

**WARNING: This chapter is NOT for the faint of heart. Rated M for a grisly crime scene, violence and attempted rape.**

**AN: ****Big thanks to J-Horror Girl as always, for her kind reviews and excellent criticism. **

**Ladies and Gentleman, we interrupt this broadcast to bring you the Best. Joker. Origin. Story. Ever: And The Rest Is Ancient History. By Grace Dark. You. Must. Read. Now.**

…**and now back to our regularly scheduled programming!

* * *

**

**7:45 EST**

**Highway 47**

There were a lot of unspoken things in that kiss.

"Someone got laid last night." I say quietly.

There is a long, long pause as Lawless makes to nonchalantly put down his mug. "None of your 'fucking business,' oh Hell-" Lawless says, not able to keep a straight face and spilling scalding coffee down his lap. The light turns red. He stomps the brakes, grimacing. "And it's a good thing, too. _Oh,_ _Damn."_

"Sorry."

But that smiling grimace dies on his face, sad eyes sobering as fumes fill the car. "It had to be hazelnut." He whispers to himself.

"I'm glad you guys made up," I state. Fucking relieved is more like it.

"Yeah." Lawless grunts. "Yeah, me too." It's been a long time coming. Between _Stop the Violence _and her night hours they have hardly seen each other all summer. Lawless is strong, perhaps the strongest man I've ever met, but every man has his breaking point. He lost a wife once, and it nearly destroyed him. He wouldn't survive a second.

"She's pregnant." He says all at once. I couldn't have heard it right-

"What?" I turn.

"She's pregnant. About three months in. She didn't tell me til last night." The way he says it. Giddy. Weeping. Excited yet emotionless, as though dreading my reply. I am torn with envy and jealousy, with the sickening thought that he can have another son to replace the one he lost, yet I never can, that he could forget Angel so fast like Ian and that fucking puppy-

But those feelings are shallow and weak, and just as I know he loved my Angel as I did I know I would be less of a man-less of a _woman_-to make him mask his joy for my sake. I force a slow smile and shrug. "One hell of a time."

The light turns green.

"Yeah," He says. "Yeah." Then his eyes catch mine in the rear-view mirror, and his face splits into a relieved and genuine grin. "That's what she said."

* * *

**8:21 EST**

**Washington Avenue**

We trundle through traffic as though nothing were wrong. As though we have all the time in the fucking world. For a moment it is two years ago, before a man named the Joker changed everything we knew about the world, when that name was no more than a playing card and it was the mob we dealt with on the daily grind. Dent is alive. Dawes is alive. We pass City Hall, its arched dome white in the morning sun, and I nearly expect to see her, harried and yet oh-so-pristine and petite, following demurely in his wake. It is almost as if a young man named Jimmy Connolly never received his badge, never came to work for GCPD, never came to mean the world to both of us and it's just another morning, just another fucking morning in the Sleepless City…

…then we round the block down Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway, and the shocking scab of the Legacy's destruction destroys every illusion of normalcy. There is no going back.

I ask about the arms drop. Lawless relates the tale, how Gordon organized with Miller to catch the motherfucker with National Guardsmen instead of SWAT. Good man. Good decision. It tells me Lawless believed me. It tells me Gordon believed Lawless…and it tells me there is a traitor in our midst. Gordon can't trust his own men, and now they know it too.

So much for WATCHDOG, Harvey Dent and Loeb's brainchild. Officers like me…like I was. Officers like Lawless. Ramirez. The thought that the dog who has been rescued from the streets, has been rejected by all else is less likely to bite the hand that feeds it. No, Stalton was right. The feral cat makes the best mouser. Which makes it doubly dangerous. If it's someone in WATCHDOG…well, Surillo, Dawes and Loeb didn't die because they were fucking stupid. This mother is clever. There's a wolf in sheep's clothing and it's in the fold…

…and the lambs are already bleating.

Lawless takes a swig of coffee. Keeps his face towards the road but his eyes find mine in the mirror. And here it comes: "How'd you know?"

I have my answer ready. "Do you really want to know?" I ask lightly, the final words of that midnight confession hanging pregnant in the air:

_What did he mean to you?_

It was Lawless who came for him. Lawless who risked his life, climbed through the horror of the Legacy when it meant leaving a wife and a son behind, Lawless who did anything and everything in his power to keep Connolly alive and damn the consequences. Lawless who chose to act, chose to act whatever the cost…

_Nothing. Everything._

"No." Lawless says with a shake of his auburn head, his hazel eyes boring into mine through the rear-view mirror. "No, I don't." I recline back into the seat with a silent nod. It will be an anonymous tipper that led the GCPD to the arrest of former US Army General Lazarus McCoy, and one of the largest weapon busts on the East Coast in fifteen years. It'll look good for the department's image. Might even raise some hope that something was being done to _Stop the Violence…_

_Stop the Violence?_ I ask as we cross the toll bridge to the Narrows, the Narrows where Angel was murdered, where a distant billboard fills the morning sky with Trisha Tanaka's and Chris Holden's cheerful faces advertise for Good Morning Gotham.

…_No. No, the violence hasn't yet begun.

* * *

_

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

**9:15 EST**

Police Line Do Not Cross.

_No shit_. I climb over the tape, my long legs sliding over with ease. My right knee nearly buckles, and Lawless' strong arm supports me. CSI waits inside the perimeter in their eerie suits, equipment in hand. The outside of the abandoned apartment building has already been photographed. No one has entered-

-no one but the junkies who used the place to get a fix…and got more than what they'd bargained for.

"We woke up man, and man…we saw this shit-"

It is a mark of how horrendous the crime that they would call it in. Or perhaps, a mark of how high they still are.

"Fuck man, you know, you know I done some bad shit in my life but fuck man, this is, this is…" The mixed race teenager continues, jittering and writhing, his fix wearing off, unwashed body screaming out for another tab of acid. "The other guys…the other guys they don't want nothin' to do with it, you know? You know? Like, like they think it's the Joker, man, a-an-and that motherfucker he scare the shit out of everybody, yeah?"

Through the broken panes, jagged teeth of glass and greying grout, the dim outline of an ambulance can barely be seen, hidden behind the receiving bay.

Sick, spindly spiders go pouring down my back, silky and chill, like raw, dripping eggs. This is where they brought him. This is where he died…

Nora Fields stands ready and waiting, digital camera slung around her neck. She turns, and in the ensuing silence I hear the roar of raging flies…

She grimaces. Looks to Lawless. "It ain't a pretty sight."

* * *

**9:18 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

Sunken grey flesh quivering, quivering under a coat of lime-green maggots, the only brightness in this horrible hell, their tiny squeals like the echo of dying screams…

The smell is indescribable.

"Our missing paramedics." Lawless says soberly, pulling his shirt over his mouth and nose, leaning in for a closer look. I join him. The facial features are gone entirely, sockets pouring with maggots, mouth dripping with egg cases, sticky, slimy flies crawling, swarming, biting my arms and face…

Unrecognizable. Inhuman. I shut my eyes. Steel myself. I need to see this. Need to know. Need to be reminded of Pakistan, dead corpses, bodies bloated and sickly in the hideous heat, flesh melted, fat bubbling like hot wax…

Ten days. Ten days in the stifling heat of the August sun. I will not know my Angel when I see him.

* * *

**9:23 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

"Cause of death, cervical spine lesions." Nora says expertly, putting down her Canon and cradling each head in her gloved hands. "They died quick. Well…God, can you imagine how strong you'd have to be to do that? Not once, but three times?"

"Not really." I state emotionlessly. "It's just a matter of leverage and force. If you know what you're doing it's not all that hard-"

_...Oh, fuck._

She gags. Drops the head, and it falls stiffly, bobbing once on what is left of the neck. "Christ, Paltron." Lawless breathes. "I didn't need to know that."_ Stupid bitch_. _The hell were you thinking?_ But truth be told I wasn't. Too engrossed with the bodies, numbed, dreading what was to come…I try to shrug it off, but the weight of that statement and of those deaths is again on my shoulders. "Marine hand to hand combat. Silent kill."

_...and a Dyke cellmate at Memorial. _But that is something I will never share. Not even with Lawless.

Nora still can't look at me. Lawless clears his throat. Blinks. "Yeah, but what's…what's the Joker doing using that? You think he's ex-military?"

That son of a bitch? Section 8. He'd never make it in…and I've seen some sorry shit excuses for soldiers in my time. "We'd have gotten prints. DNA. You don't have to be special forces to break someone's neck, Lawless." I remind him.

"Yeah," Lawless says, still staring at me strangely. "Yeah, You're right. It just seems…so unlike him."

_Killer._ Gordon's voice rings out of the past. I've killed. He's killed. We all have. We are soldiers in a different sort of civilian war…and yes, if he knew the truth, he would shudder. But he does not. He has merely fallen prey to the erroneous belief that shooting a man with a service pistol is different than killing him with hand, blade, or blunt force trauma. But it is no different…just less personal.

"He was in a hurry." Nora finishes. "Tried the same thing with Hanson-we found stress fractures in the transverse processes of her cervical vertebra-muscle tearing. When that didn't work, he strangled her."

"Manually?" Lawless asks suddenly.

The squat woman nods. "He did a sloppy job of it, too."

"_Sloppy_?" I cut in, confused.

"Broke the hyoid bone. Means he let her struggle. If you mean to strangle someone you go for the carotid first, pinch off the blood supply, Darth Vader death grip sort of shit." He muses aloud. "It's significant. But I'll be damned if I know what or why."

"Might have just wanted to carry on a bit." Nora says squeamishly. "I'm not the psych consult, alright? This bastard scares the shit out of me."

"Nah." Lawless says, raking fingers through his short cropped hair-much to Nora's disgust.

"Might I remind you to consider de-gloving?" She chides motherly.

"She was a woman." I say without thinking, the words come tumbling from my lips like a dark confession. "A woman. The first one he's ever killed by hand. He tried to break her neck but she was too strong-it surprised him. And having to strangle her didn't sit well at all-"

The words sink in, heavy and silent. About us, the flies buzz still. Instinct? Gut feeling? Personal experience? I think back to three months in Memorial, long nights alone in the dark, hearing whispers, shouts, screams of fear, in terror learning for the first time that rape wasn't a crime imposed on women solely by _men_…

I look to the corpse, its rotted, blackened skin, slack jaw, empty sockets…and I for the second time today I think inexplicably of Dent.

J_ane C. Arkham Memorial Women's Correctional Facility. Cell block 32. Entombed haunt of the East Coast's most violent female sex offenders._

…_If you want to survive, you don't let them see you cry._

_My hands are cuffed to the table. Isolation. Interrogation room. I am beaten. Abused. By both inmate and security alike. The only difference is in where they leave their bruises: those on the government payroll know you can't get caught if you only leave welts under the jumpsuit…_

_On my first night in Memorial, I have become queen of ward 32._

_...and I want to die._

_But I can't cry. Can't tremble. Not even here, not even now. I can show no signs of femininity or weakness. So in silence I sob, dry eyes burning slick blood scabbing on smooth skin my sins are ever before me and I want to wretch scream cry sob die let it end let it all end but I can't be weak, can't be weak have to live live get out find my Angel again-_

_And with that thought the warm whisper of consoling breath pants across the flash of my throat, his heavy head, silken curls, sleeping face pressed against me…I gasp. My Angel is here. I close my eyes, washed in waves of agony and ecstasy, and it is enough. Enough. Enough to know he lives, breathes, absolves all my sins for his sake-_

_The door opens. Harvey Dent. My attorney. Fat lot of fucking good he'll do me. _

_He is silent. He red rimmed eyes are shot with sleep and repressed tears. They stare at me, uncomposed, with perhaps a bit of fear as the door is shut behind him. There is no Security now, nothing but a pair of stainless steel handcuffs chaining me to a post. _

_Respect and resentment well up in my heart. He's no fool. Not an arrogant, piece of shit attorney who finds himself god with nothing to fear…no, he holds a file in his hand, images seared in his eyes, and knows very well what a criminal is capable of._

_Tears. What I am capable of…_

_The catcalls, wolf whistles, heybabies and I'll fuck you like you fucked that kid-! have long since ceased. It is the eerie calm, the eye of the storm. The guard walks by again, and the lights overhead turn down, bright, wavering blue lamps high above, too weak even for shadows. And in this darkness, the demons wake._

_One lonely, abandoned Angel will not keep them at bay. Those lights, like my hopes, snuffed suddenly out._

_I am chilled yet sweating, slimed and disgusting with neither underwear nor bra, sagging breasts sticking to the inside of the jumpsuit. My sheets are thin, the air artificially cooled, back pressed against the bare iron bars. My bloodshot eyes are open, staring into the empty pit of the cell. I am a cop on her first night in prison. I cannot afford to fall asleep…_

_The night churns on. There are no whispers. Whimpers. Screams of fear. They are waiting, all waiting, bated breath to watch me break. The seconds tick by, my blinks growing longer, corneas dull and dry with the effort. But I am exhausted. Drained. Distraught. My weary body cries out for sleep, for rest-!_

_Stay awake, bitch. I beg. Just stay awake…_

_Swift shuffling of feet they move like shadows and dust five pairs of hands groping in the darkness twist pull Nonono! Sweaty, mannish arms around my head I cannot cry out flailing helplessly kicking scratching biting they take my arms take my legs break my nose break my fingers I am sobbing in pain twisting twisting have to get away shanks out bone scrap metal hollow ballpoint pen they cut away my clothes cut away my clothes at the waist pull the pants down over my feet grab my legs they have my legs spread them apart I am screaming I am sobbing AngelAngelAngel-!_

_But Dent's voice jars me from this harsh reverie: "Hernandez. Rosario 45. Cause of death: Cerebral hemorrhage/edema, blunt force trauma to the base of the skull. Smith, Marny, 33, Cause of death: hypovolemic shock due to carotid hemorrhage. Deshawn, Shakira, 27. Cause of death: Indeterminable due to pos…postmor…postmortem d-decapitation-"_

_His trembling voice can go no further. He throws the file down with disgust. Pictures scatter across the table's smooth surface, glossy and unfeeling in their inglorious brutality. I shut my eyes. Try to shut my ears. But even then the corpses cry out Killer Killer Killer…_

_Dent cuts across my thoughts again. Both his voice and hands are shaking. "Triple homicide. Cold, cut, and dry. About the bloodiest one I've ever heard of…with over fifty eyewitnesses. You're looking at life." He states. Shuts the file, and those accusatory evidence is mercifully hidden from my view. _

"_I need your help." I whisper._

"_Oh," Dent throws his hands up in exasperation. "_Now_ she talks!" Our countless interviews began a month ago. My trial ended two days ago. And now the still room temperature remains of three women lie broken and bloody in Memorial's Morgue. It is-it has always been, it will always be-too late. "That skill would have been helpful…say, at your trial?"_

"_I need help." I am pleading now._

"_Yeah." The young man says, face white and lips tight. He is court appointed, the only on my case, here against his body's need for sleep and his own moral judgment. I can see it in his eyes: I deserve every ounce of vengeance and punishment I reap. "Yeah, I'll bet you do. And here's the thing: I don't know if I can…and I don't know if I care."_

_Piteous moan. But you knew it, Bitch. Knew it the moment you gave him up, saved his life, knew this was the price, the only price, the one you would have to pay-_

_Yet now I know: I'm not a Killer. Looking into the accusing eyes of this young man I know there isn't a man or woman who sat my jury and sentenced me here who wouldn't have wished the same upon Angel's father and his friends…I am vengeance. I am fury…and for the first time since that God-awful night I know I am not alone, not the only to play judge and jury. _

"_You think you're better than me, but you're not." I hiccup. "You ever wonder Dent, wonder why it is sex offenders are housed with each other? It's because you think we deserve it. People like you-people like that jury, people like the security working here-think we deserve every ounce of punishment and ass fucking we get. Oh, sure, you'd never do it yourself, never say it, never come out and condone it but you know it happens, you all fucking know and you let it happen right under your nose…" _

_Blue eyes blink. The words are hard for him to take. The truth almost always is. He is shaking now, shaking, and I see the restraint required not to slap me for being so bold, so arrogant, so self-righteous-_

"_Yeah." He finally whispers, leaning back into his chair, a screeching sound as he scoots it back against the wall as to remove the temptation. He redeems himself. Perhaps only slightly. Subconsciously. But he is a far, far better man than the Warden or guards…_

"'_Yeah, I think I'm better than you. And what you say might be true but at least I've never killed someone. Least _I've_ never ass-fucked a little kid-"_

_Blink. Hot tears. I bow my head. _

"_You've only got one way out of this, but you already know what that is, don't you?" He demands harshly. _

_Arkham. Psychological Services. I could be labeled pathologically homicidal. Criminally Insane. His words sink into the silence, heavy and pregnant. But they won't. Never will. I'm a cop. A fucking dirty cop and a convicted sex offender, accused of child molestation. Even psychiatrists have biases, have humanity, have that brutal, societal sense of innocence and justice about throwing those 'deserving' to the dogs…_

…_even that cunt Quinzel would rather purposefully misdiagnose me than let me leave this Hell._

_Welcome to the first night of the rest of your miserable life, bitch. Welcome to Hell. Welcome to Memorial. You'll remember us, motherfucker, motherfucking Po you'll pay…_

_Sheen of metal. Flesh trembling in sick anticipation she leers over me dirty hands pawing says welcome to 32, snipper. Then-_

"_What the fuck what the hell never seen a pussy like that Gawd girl I be doin' you a favor I gonna be tearin' you a new hole-!"_

_Salty tears stream, burn my eyes. They said they could reconstruct it after Pakistan. Said with some corrective surgeries I could regain some sphincter control. Said in time, said in time they could make me a woman again. I'd never feel anything but could accommodate a man-_

_But my husband left me. Jon fucking left me the only man I ever loved or trusted. Gone. I told them to fuck it. A normal life? Intimacy? I'd been scarred in more ways than one, told sexual reconstructive surgeons it wasn't worth the goddamned effort I just didn't want to be pissing my pants…_

_My first night in Memorial I learned what all cops in prison must. There are only two choices: become the Bitch…or become a Butcher. _

_It's just begun just the beginning I'm a white woman child molester dirty cop…no rush of security no shouting no cries no lights turned on nothing but heavy, leering breath above, screams and chants jeering her on fuck the cop fuck the fucking cop-! salty eyes streaming, burning, I look up into her dark face and there is no pity, no mercy, nothing I can do to stay her hand-there is nothing, nothing for me here but night after night of rape and abuse._ _No one is coming to save me. Security knew. Knows. I serve a twenty year sentence without parole. Twenty years…and no one will ever come to rescue me. _

_Trembling, panting, nearly naked here in the Valley of the Shadows in Sodom in Gomorrah I am not Tamar, not Dinah, not Ester or Hagar..._

_...I am Judith. I am Jael. And with their strength I twist that shank from her clenched fist and with a shrill shriek my predators become my prey._

"_Cop in prison has the right to defend herself." I state emotionlessly, cuffed hands tugging at the sharp seams of the zipper. _

_I am sweaty. Bra-less. Bruised and covered in blood. His eyes go wide-his eyes go huge-as I pull the bloodied shank from its hiding place under my breast and set it on the table-_

_He jumps back. Wide-eyed, pale, adrenaline rushing to his skull screaming run the fuck away-_

"_They tried to rape me." Tears prick my eyes. I sniff. "With this. Run the prints. Mine aren't the only on it."_

_Dent remembers my cuffs. Chains. He flushes, stammers, embarrassed more by my immodesty or his own foolishness only he could say. _

"_Wh-, how-? Where-? Paltron, how the _hell_ did you get this past security?"_

_I look up at him with a bitter laugh. "Full strip and cavities search on entrance. I've been here a day, Dent. One fucking day. You think I had time to make this?"_

_It's bone. Probably turkey. Sharpened to a deadly point. At least it was. Now it's bloodied. Dented. Dull. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…_

_He sighs. Concedes. Stands. Heads for the door. "I'll get gloves. A bag. We'll get the security films and provided you're telling the truth, we'll nail them on negligence and get you off on self-defense."_

_Long, long, shuddering sigh. Twin, trickling tears. "Thank you." I whisper._

_But Harvey Dent stops. Chews his tongue. "Don't _thank_ me. I'm only doing my job because I have to."_

_Bullshit. He's doing his job because conscience compels him._

_Conscience. If conscience and justice had anything to do with the US prison system inmates wouldn't OD. Get pregnant. Lose sphincter control…Jane C. Arkham Memorial Women's Correctional Facility is Hell, and everyone inside becomes a devil._

_I heave a bitter laugh. Call to his retreating back. "There's something you should know, Harvey, since you're going to be sending people here for the rest of your life, and it's this: there's only one difference between the people who live here and the people who work here, and it's the fucking uniforms. Nothing else."_

_Silence.__ "I guess you'd know." He finally says. "Since you're a bit of both."_

"_Yeah." My hoarse voice breaks. "I suppose I am."_

"_Why'd you do it?" He suddenly asks. "You knew it would be like this. You kidnapped him. You raped him. Then you took him to the goddamned pediatric hospital-"He sighs. Shakes his head. Wonders if he even wants to understand the gruesome rationale, the logic of a sexual criminal…wonders why his curiosity, his hate, his pity will not let him simply walk away. "Didn't have the heart? The guts? What was it? Because you can kill. Hell, woman, can you kill." He gestures to the closed file, a sinister, manilla crypt._

_Tears spill. I try to wipe them. Blink them. Shrug them away. But Dent is shrewd. So shrewd. _

_I am silent. As I should have always been. Again my silence condemns me…only this time it screams the truth. Harvey S. Dent, court appointed, unwilling, belligerent and borderline contempt fresh from law school night court attorney guesses. Makes a wild shot in the dark and hits dead fucking center. My knotted lie unravels like a string. In seconds, he knows…_

_He pales. Blinks. Looks at me with pity, pity and disgust, with anger and rage, with newfound respect, with a searing, utter thirst for the Truth-All the Truth. Nothing but the Truth. And he will never be satiated with anything less._

"_Who was it?" He suddenly snarls. "Who was it, Paltron? Damnit, who did it? Was it your boyfriend? Did you have a boyfriend-? A lover-? Were you forced into this? Were you paid-?"_

"_N-n-no…" I am sobbing, sobbing he grabs my jumpsuit grabs the front of my open jumpsuit shakes me, breasts flopping head lolling hair falling he shakes me like a rag doll-_

"_Was it Gordon?" He hisses. "Answer me! Tell. Me. Now." He is shaking me, shaking me my head will fall from my shoulders, fall from my shoulders like the hideous Dyke's dripping and wet-_

"_WAS IT GORDON!"_

_But I am silent. My eyes leak tears but my bleeding lips are forever locked. It is Angel's secret, and I will take it to my grave-_

_The door slams. He drops me. But I am shaking, shaking still, cold, exposed, whimpering like a fucking baby so fucking frightened-_

_The Warden. Dent's eyes narrow. His rage disappears instantly._

"_My client is injured." Dent states succinctly. "She needs to get to the infirmary and I want her there under constant video surveillance, you understand? And then you take her back to her cell and I want a tape from every video recorder over cell block 32 from tonight, and indefinitely, with the names and ID numbers of every officer on watch tonight and every officer who will be charged with my client's care, with full access to their personnel files."_

"_Very well." The Warden says, not bothering to stifle his boredom. "Will there be anything else?"_

_But I was wrong. Dent's rage hasn't disappeared-it has merely been deflected._

"_Yeah. I'm charging your ass for negligence. Negligence and abuse of a dependent of the state and accessory to murder. That's what else. And that's just the fun part. Cause then I'm going to go through and I'll personally interview every other woman in this damn place and I'll charge your ass again, and where you and your men are going they'll tear it so many holes they can use you as a fucking colander."_

"_I-that is to say, I, we--Mr. Dent, where are you going?" The Warden yelps desperately._

_He stops. Wheels. Ignores sputtering protests and promises of bribes to stare directly at me. I am speechless in dread. Pinned. Frozen. I know the answer, and I cannot breathe-_

"_After Surillo. After a subpoema. After that little boy."_

…_and everything, everything that I ever am comes crashing down will all my hopes and fears._

_The door slams. Dent disappears. Gust of wind blows the file open, pages streaming, pictures whirring. I sit weeping in the dank basements of Memorial with sanguine-smeared sweat dripping down my body, staining my skin, scabbing my hands, surrounded by the inescapable evidences of all my seven deadly sins. Seven lives. Seven souls. Seven secrets._

_All for promises. All for Angel. All…for nothing. _

I shudder.

It is _different_ to kill a woman. Even in self-defense. Even when necessary. The texture of the skin, the feel of the hair, the strength of mind required, it's all so _wrong_…rape-homicide, no. Those motherfuckers-like Nabokov-know exactly what they're doing. And domestic violence? Those bastards are out of control. Lash out in anger one time too many, with just enough strength…but many phone in out of guilt. Or to try to cover their tracks…

But for a simple homicide? Most use guns. Shot to the head. Steal purse, wallet, jewelry. Even fucking Joe Chill shot Martha Wayne. His bare hands never even so much as touched her…There is some truth to the fact if guns were gone, the crime rate would theoretically be less...but good fucking luck rounding up all the illegal weapons out there. Stalton and that weapons bust proves against it. And true killers, the ones who really don't give a shit-I stare back to the rotting bodies, don't need weapons to spread violence and terror.

"I dunno." Lawless says. "I just…but yeah. Yeah, he wouldn't be toying around. He had to get out of there. The guy's a serious sociopath and a damn good one…he's not psychotic. Not delusional. He knew what he was doing…so _why_ do it?"

For a long second we stare, minds churning, but hands coming up empty. Mine are stained in blood. "Maybe we're reading too much into it." I finally concede.

He shakes his head. Goes to bite his nails but Nora slaps him. "Take off your gloves before you get Hep C? HIV? Please?" She pleads.

"Yeah." He grumbles, putting that begrimed hand back in his hair and waving her away. "You might be on to something there." He says, looking up at me from his squat before the bodies. "This guy…this fucker he likes to kill. Lot of people hypothesize that killers get something out of it, sexual gratification sort of shit. I dunno. But if that's true we can think of this bastard as a rapist."

I think of crime scene photographs…think of Chinatown and Angel. "He enjoys the power."

"Exactly." Lawless says, rubbing his hands together. "So he's a rapist. It's not so much about the death as it is about the _fear_. And if he can't have that fear, that foreplay-"

"He's got nothing." I say, face drawn in a twisted sneer. "He's like Nabokov."

"Pardon?" Nora asks, bewildered and disquieted.

"Russian serial killer. Goes after young girls, mostly prepubescent." Lawless informs her.

"He brands his victims." I finish. "Through the breast."

"Postmortem?" She asks, almost hopefully. But Lawless just shakes his head.

Her voice has gone very, very quiet. Again the maggots squeal. "Why?"

Lawless' teeth are bared in a snarl. "Rumor has it he can't get it on if they don't scream." She shudders. Lawless degloves, wipes his face with his now sweaty palms. I stoop beside him, eye to eye. My right leg is buckling, but I can hold it. Must hold it. There is something going on here, a thought that must be captured. It cannot be allowed to flit away…

"This guy," Lawless points to the bodies, "this guy likes the power. The fear. In essence he likes to _rape, _not kill_._" He kills, yes. Is more than willing to kill. Perhaps he needs it...

But at the heart, what he lusts, longs, thirsts for, is that _power._ "But not women." I say slowly. "Not women. All his 'rape' victims have been men." But is it homosexual tendencies...or something _worse_?

"Surillo?" Lawless counters. "Dawes? The ferries?"

"Political killings." I finally answer, heart racing in my chest. "Not personal. He sent Meroni's men to do it for him. He didn't rape them. He just killed them, or had them killed. In a way, his hands are clean…"

"And the ferries, too. Mass killing. Rapist doesn't get much out of that. It was purely political-"

But something isn't right. Our theory hits not a brick wall but a sheet of bullet proof plate glass. "He threw Dawes out the window. Wayne's high class party, remember?" I say lightly.

"God," Lawless breathes after a moment of intense frowning. "I _hate_ thinking like this bastard."

_So do I, Lawless. So do I. But at least you don't have to become him._ "It fits." He finally says. "It has to fit somehow. We've got a pattern. A definite pattern No string of dead prostitutes. No gender biased increase in missing persons, violent or homicidal rapes in that time period that could be linked to him. He's a rapist, a homoerotic rapist, and his a political murderer. God...he's a terrorist, a murderer _and_ a rapist."

"He was looking for Dent." I say after a moment of tight lipped silence. "Witnesses say he came asking for Dent."

Lawless' eyes are glowing eerily, like wolf's in the dark. "Then the Batman shows up."

My teeth are showing, face stretched, but not in a smile. "He needs more time-"

"And good bye, Miss Gotham." He finishes. "It wasn't 'rape'. He'd already had some fun with her…but it was to get to Dent. Once interrupted, he just threw her away. But he didn't 'rape' her."

"He knew the Batman would save her-or try. It wasn't killing her at all. Not killing in his eyes, at least. It was easy. Too easy. He barely touched her."

"No." Lawless concedes. "And it would be the Batman's fault-he gave the Batman a choice, do you see? He was still in control. Physically and emotionally, this fucker was in control."

"He went after Dawes to bleed out Dent. And when the Batman arrived-"

"The Joker responds in kind. Whatever it took. Whatever and whoever it took to get in charge. But Rachel wasn't the victim, she was merely the instrument-" He rushes, then stops.

"But _why_?"

That thought is birthing. Becoming substantial. We must say it quickly, quickly, before time and confusion snuff it out beyond recall…

_Rapist. Killer. Power. Sexual Gratification. Sloppy. Can't even get it on if they don't scream…_

Lawless looks me in the eyes, and they are _smoldering_. His words are like a cold, twisting knife. "This bastard. This purple bastard. Whoever the fuck he is…He really hates _men_." And from that look I know my Angel told him everything. Hollow, hollow, guilt and greif. I look away, and empty, egg-sodden sockets stare blankly back at me. I blanch.

Angel. I surrendured him not only to be abused by Gerald, but the Joker as well.


	23. In Nomine Patris

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: I can't recommend Apocalypse Now as a movie as I've never seen it, but it has some amazing dialogue and noteworthy quotes worth checking out for anyone needing some TDK inspiration. Alfred's story in this chapter is based off an incident in this film.**

**I have to thank two amazing authors, Nezzy Crazy Plots, Inc. and Heart of Friendship, for their ideas about Crane and his coercion-or is it conversion?-by the League of Shadows.**

**Disclaimer: All prejudices or viewpoints expressed by characters of Ernestina are their own, and unrelated to the author's religious, political, or personal beliefs.  


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**Martyrdom has always been a proof of the intensity, never of the correctness of a belief.—Arthur Schnitzier

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**The following is a GCPD (MCU branch) file concerning the Gotham City Chamber of Commerce Department of Hospitality and Tourism Management's website. This information regarding the founding of Arkham Asylum, and its now ominous and continual attention from fringe societies, the Anarchist movement, and quasi-religious neocultic groups is being investigated by analysts to see if there were any religious or subcultural significances in the choice of the location for staging the event referred to as Fear Night.**

**Gotham City Chamber of Commerce: _Because a City Never Sleeps._**

_Memoirs of a Madman_: Reflections on the life and medical practice of Amadeus Arkham-available on Amazon for $24.99.

Here is an exerp from chapter 22 of Amadeus Arkham's posthumously published memoirs, released to the public on the fiftieth anniversary of his mother's death, in accordance to his last living will and testament. The book is dedicated "For my dearest Mother, Elizabeth." The content of this book raised public outcry for stricter standards of psychiatric practice and care wards, in addition to a government crackdown on facilities not meeting immediate compliance.

Sadly, Arkham Asylum maintains this image of the 'mad scientist' even now, years after its founder's death. Added to the superstition is recent architextural confirmation that Arkham's Asylum was indeed built upon the foundations of a ruined Masonic temple. Rumors of hauntings in the basement chambers were electroshock chambers where Amadeus began his human experimentation-even executions-remain a staple of Gotham City legend and North American Fright tourism (For more on Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins, see Rite or Wrong: Crimes of Passion and Public Opinion in the Twentieth Century, by Aaron Lawless, MD). The Asylum's somewhat sinister reputation again hit national spotlight after the incident Fear Night, in which Arkham Interim Director Jonathan Crane utilized the now infamous basements to hack the city sewer system and subsequently spread a psychoxxx compound into Gotham City, affecting at least 50,000 residents of Gotham City, although incidence in the Narrows, public census data, illegal immigration, and a large number of yet missing persons make these numbers unclear. Government officials of the National Association of Mental Health currently estimate epidemiology to be somewhere closer to 200,000. It is now known Crane perfected this toxin by illegal experimentation on Arkham inmates.

**_Administrator or Inmate: Scientific study, martyrdom, and patient experimentation for the Greater Good of Humanity_**

_A Martyr is one who dies for his own causes, be they religious or political, he is held in the highest esteem not merely by his followers but his enemies as well. There is, inequivocably, nothing that instills more terror in an organism than to contemplate death. The strength of mind required for such a task is contrary to every mechanism of evolution, for survival not only of a species but self, and is-arguably-the only difference between us and our fellow animals. Even non-human primates can begin to comprehend language. And recent studies have demonstrated that in fact music, while not produced, is appreciated._

_It is this ability to self-destruct that is unique-and even then this claim must be put into context. A mother dog will die to defend her pups, as will a she-bear for her cubs. Is it love, or simply maternal instincts? Can we not then ask the same question for human mothers as well? Is maternal love no more than maternal instinct? The seemingly impossible is easily overcome through biochemical reactions such as the release of epinephrine evidenced even in the most wild and undomesticated of beasts. No, to be truly distinct, the human animal and its martyrdom must be qualified._

_Mad dogs and other unfortunates stricken with rabies seek out man. This disease reverses the natural instincts of fear of predation. Of death. Is there a similar phenomena in the human animal as well? Not rabies but perhaps some other disease yet unknown, someday to be discovered? Perhaps. Perhaps instead of distinctual this phenomena of martyrdom is merely mirrored in other animals. Perhaps it is a sickness-an irregularity in our condition-therefore not really our condition-that causes this paradoxical insanity._

_I would argue, for posterity's sake, that it is indeed not this factor that discerns us from animals, not the wilful destruction of self-but of others. Samuel Clemens, for some years my contemporary, is in agreement:_ "Heaven is by favor; if it were by merit your dog would go in and you would stay out. Of all the creatures ever made man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood, he is the only one... that possesses malice. He is the onlycreature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain."

_Yet this statement needs qualifying. For there is another sort of malice, not an unfeeling disregard but an utmost respect for life and suffering. The ability to kill and inflict pain, in cold blood, for the sake of scientific inquiry. There is no other species which may make this claim. A cat will kill, oh yes, and leave her prey untouched, but this is instinctual behavior, honing the skills that will be necessary for survival. Man is indeed the only which captures another living creature solely for the sake of putting it slowly to death…even another man._

_So, too, there indeed must needs exist a different sort of martyr. One who instead sacrifices not self but others. A misunderstood, darker genius, which society is right to deny. But it makes his cause no less grandiose, his sacrifice no less great, his cause no less good. I, Amadeus Arkham, am Nietzsche's Ubermensch, and I listen to a higher morality. I am in service of a far, far Greater Good. I will not be deterred or imposed upon by those too weak to seek power and wield it._

_I killed Hawkins. I did not murder him. He died serving a better purpose than his pathetic psychosis ever allowed him live. He died, that others who suffer like him may yet one day be cured. There were others, too, others, abandoned by family and friends whose lives were stolen from them already by the society which cast them out. These too, I released to something more. I have watched the human mind and brain unravel due to electricity and starvation, I have seen the effects of lobotomy and lack of iodine. There is a fascinating wealth of knowledge to be gained from patients such as Phineas Gage…would be anything more or less than scientists to replicate this as experiment? I would argue no._

_I doubt not that posterity will tremble at these posthumous remarks. As well they should. The human mind-the human genius-in its most honest state is something both awesome and terrifying to behold._

**Afterword:**

_Listen, listen! My dearest brothers and sisters at bedsides, I confess now that crime to which all physicians both dread and aspire to: I, Amadeus Arkham, against my oath to do no harm, took mercy on a patient and prematurely ended her life in a humane and dignified manner which God, or nature, or the misguided morality of men saw not fit to give her._

_This woman, as many have long since ceased to suspect, was my own mother, Elizabeth Arkham, to whose memory I dedicate not only this book, my hospital or career, but the horrifying yet medically necessary inquiries that may, someday, find a cause or cure so none more may suffer as she did._

_Long may she be remembered, and may she rest in peace._

**Note: ****Current Director Jeremiah Arkham has suspended all public and private viewings of the Basement and Execution Room, wishing to retain the Institution's dignity. Not made public knowledge is an official GCPD policy PANDEMONIUM that was enacted due to concern for security involving high profile patients Jonathan Crane and the Joker.**

* * *

**Tuesday, August 20th, 2030**

**20:12 EST  
**

It happened so fast. Three unmarked sedans slammed against the curb, vomiting uniformed men. The door banged open, locks snapping under the force of the blow, flash bangs smoking dark shadows spilling in-

Renee Montoya was grabbed in a headlock, slammed against the wall, disarmed. Ramirez was shoved roughly to the floor. Allen and Milton were thrown to the ground, the sharp metallic click over their ears daring them to move.

Lawless was slammed to the tile, a boot grating roughly on the small of his back, arm twisted up over his head

Jim Gordon didn't even rise when they entered, didn't protest as his face was slammed into the desk.. They were coming for him. Let them come, he had made his choice-

The bathroom door crashed open. Shouts. Shots. Black figures staggering back, a blow to the face, solar plexus, rifle wrest from clenched hands shots into the ceiling Gwen Paltron shrieking like a banshee, mad as a berserk-

Another roaring blast. More smoke. Coughing, choking-

It was over.

* * *

**Seven Hours Earlier...**

**Arkham Asylum**

That popular genius, that Andrew Lloyd Weber had captured it best. Had the world of criticism not bored him to stupor, condemning and dissecting art subjectively instead of focusing on that which was important-the mind that created it and a studious attention to the rationale behind it-perhaps he would have written a dissertation on Weber's broadway adaptation of _The Phantom of the Opera._

…But he highly doubted it.

Courageous, overdone epitome of dignified masculinity that respected a woman's right to choose merely because it was the predominant social theory of the time pleading for his lover's life: I love her, does that mean nothing? I love her, show some compassion!

Hideously disfigured villain showing tendencies which indicated an obsession for the sexual possession of anything society deemed beautiful or good under the equally valid statement that the denial of such things was indeed bad for his psyche as they oppressed the Id demonstrating that all evil men were, at heart, simply misunderstood and sexually frustrated: the world showed no compassion to me!

And then, before the curtain crashed to its climatic close, of course the beautiful girl personifying virginity even though a woman had every right to sexual gratification in whatever form she should chose, goodness, and the importance of accepting everyone just the way they are sacrifices herself for her lover, shows this hideous monster who demands justice for his mistreatment the joys and wonders of true love and instantly he becomes docile and kind, sees the errors of his ways were in method only and henceforth resolves to properly visualize a woman as a person endowed with equal suffrage before proceeding to proposition her in sexual advancement, and releases the lovers on their way, now fit and safe to be re-introduced to society…

Skipping over a year long diatribe of the flimsy, foolish imagery and obvious sexism of the character's appearances and personalities, it would suffice to say that psychological disorders were never so simple. Weren't solved by empathy or affection, true love's kiss or a long, hard pity fuck. The mind, once breached, was not so easily healed. What a man has chosen to become is not undone by the kiss of a femme fatale, regardless of how beautiful, self-sacrificing or how scandalously translucent her now soaking white dress might become.

But no. Such fickle things, though revealing of modern society's acceptance of impossible expectations, were far below his talent and his time. Instead his dissertation was entitled the properties of the seratoninergic neurons of the Amygdalary nuclear complex of the hypothalamus, and their manifestations in Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

* * *

**Gotham City Plaza**

**13:45 EST**

Adrenaline. Epinephrine. Product of the adrenal medulla in response to emotional or physical stress or intense fear. Sympathetic stimulator. Fight or flight. Sweat. Shaking. Increased heart muscle contractility, beta-adrenergics, elevating blood pressure. It was in moments of intense panic that medical school came crashing over him in waves, as his brain worked in overdrive to prove to his panicked, rebelling body it was still in control.

Detective Aaron Lawless, MD, unlike the Batman, was consumed with a sense of purpose, yes, but also of _dread._ That phone had long since gone silent, that lifeline dead. The Legacy's destruction loomed around him like an empty lunar landscape, the alien shapes of jagged concrete, scintillating glass and strained steel spires like the ruins of an ancient Atlantis in the ashen air.

"You're almost there, man." A mechanical voice spoke like God in this awful Armageddon. Fred Milton. "GPS says thirty yards to your left. You're dead on."

Dead on. Aaron Lawless clambered over more debris, the weight of that oxygen tank, this goddamned gear paltry in comparison to the heavy burden in his heart…

John and Emily Howe. Marissa and baby Brent. So young. So innocent. So full of youth, of life, of hope…

…all gone. All dead. All his fucking fault. Buried cold and still in the Southside cemetery. _Please God, please God_, the Detective pleaded, _let him be alive…

* * *

_

**14:00 EST **

**Gotham United Methodist**

"Move!" Hanson's strong voice shook the halls of Methodist yet again, the EMS team sprinting with a stretcher down the hall to the OR. A woman lay on the stretcher, perhaps in her late teens, early twenties, legs stiff and unyielding, arms beginning to curl up Egyptian style towards her chest. Fifteen years with Gotham City EMS had taught Jen about trauma. Decorticate posturing. It was the harbinger of nothing good-

"No, no, c'mon honey, c'mon honey you can make it-"

* * *

**14:05 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

And suddenly the grey stained earth was sopping, sloshing in a snowy sludge about his legs, a sea of lapping plaster and swollen dust. There was water, water everywhere, soaking up towards his knees…

Water. A water tanker. 5000 gallons of compressed H2O for fighting fire. It wouldn't do shit for the sprawling mess stretching blocks upon blocks, for the flare-ups that seared even through this heavy suit…but it was enough to protect this one small circle of slowly ebbing white waves, keep it protected from flame and explosion…

It was enough, he knew as he desperately dug, to drown anyone taking refuge under the debris in the ash strewn street-

**Gotham United Methodist**

The CT was going. Ten, fifteen minutes they'd know. Know if there was even a point in operating. Amy Lawless, RN, pumped more mannitol and steroids into the hanging IV bag, hoping against hope to stay the swelling. But the woman's respirations had gotten deeper, slower-

* * *

**14:09 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

People said he was cold. Unfeeling. Unsocialized. Cynical. Lacking empathy. The less pretentious merely labeled him a freak. Which, he could only hypothesize, was a merit of their own unvoiced fear of that with that which was different, with that which challenged their beliefs. It was far easier to dismiss him as strange than listen and lend credence to his words.

It was also a measure of success. For that was man's true fear, was it not? The unknown? Why phobias of death, darkness, and anything foreign were so prevalent? Why homosexuals reaped such hatred? Why wars were fought, why the pages of history were splattered with the blood of genocides, massacres…People felt the same about anything and everything different. Cultures based on cannibalism had thrived throughout the entire world, the most heinous of acts socially acceptable because that was simply the way things were done. It was the different, not the evil that drove man mad with fear, drove him to violence to keep his seemingly hard-earned sanity, or led him meekly down the path to madness. Many preferred to call it religion, but psychosis was psychosis, in whatever way it became manifest. The belief in the nebulous was merely another of those evolutionary mechanisms, a natural pathway built into the human psyche, to allow man to accept the different which his psyche could not.

…And how easily, too, could this madness be preyed upon! Marx had understood, as had countless generations of European royalty before him, that this self-same phenomena could be used both for pacification or militarization of the populace. Violence in the Middle East had been ongoing for a millennia, each group pitting their cultural psychosis, their delusions of right and acceptable against the other.

* * *

**Gotham City Plaza**

Dead limbs stiff and unyielding Rigor Mortis heat searing the proteins speeding up the decomposition each sopping corpse turning grey in the sudden dust seeming to rot before his eyes Finch Finch Carl Finch District Attorney Carl Finch Jimmy's voice so weak and shrill "_Dead people there's dead people they're all dead aren't they, all those people an-an-and the little kids they're all dead oh GOD-"_

And those last two words he repeated, over and over again in this holocaust _Oh God, oh God-

* * *

_

**14: 11 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

No. He was not cold. Not 'unfeeling.' His sensory perception was still intact, and he didn't lack empathy. Perhaps patience, yes. But he was not unaware of the human condition. He was in fact keenly aware of the human condition, and deeply concerned. Unsocialized? There was credence to that claim, to be sure, but logic had nothing to do early childhood development. Logic was math, unbiased, rational philosophical principles. And yet, perhaps early childhood development did have something to do with it. To the well socialized, the indoctrinated and naïve, math seemed cruel and harsh in its unwavering, uncompromising solemnity. Truth equals truth, falsehood does not equal truth…regardless of how desperately one hopes to believe it.

* * *

**14:12 EST **

**Gotham United Methodist**

"There's no point." Chavez said simply, barely glancing at the CT's pinned against the light box. "Subarachnoid hemorrhage. There's nothing I can do."

Amy Lawless' blue eyes blinked tiredly. "You're not even going to try?"

"I'm a GI surgeon." The latino shrugged emotionlessly. "I have patients I know I can save. This…even if we had the equipment, the neuro staff…there's no guarantees."

She a tired hand through her dark hair, sighed. He was right. It was just another CT scan, just another digital X-ray print out, just another classical case of how far modern medicine had come and a stark reminder of how far it had to go…

But it wasn't an anonymous film. The patient's name was unknown but she wasn't just a Jane Doe, wasn't just a patient for God's sake when had these people coming to them for help ceased being people and had become patient's instead-? It WASN'T right. Wasn't right to just sit there and watch another person, another woman lay there and die. "We have to try," She whispered. "We at least have to try-"

"No." The surgeon returned, not unkindly. "I can't waste the resources…and that's my final answer, Ames. I'm sorry."

* * *

**Arkham Asylum**

He was merely objective. Unbiased. Rational. His trained eye drawn to the irrationality of the situation, relied as all creatures did on past experience, experience-which in possession of a doctorate of psychiatry was by far more than the average citizen had in dealing with the criminally insane-which had demonstrated imperially that it was more likely the bastard would rape little Christine Daae, beat her, and kill her pathetic lover before her eyes. Lock her in the basement. Continue the abuse for decades. Sadists are sadists are sadists. Illusions of grandeur and such violent genius made the man a narcissist, and a God. Capitulating to his whims wouldn't show him the error of his ways, merely affirm to him their truth. And just as the masses turned to religion, they turned to Hollywood for hope and happy endings, constructs so unbelievably pathetic and yet they consumed them, consumed them blissfully, content with their ignorance, or perhaps-more dangerously-unaware.

* * *

**14: 21 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"I'm just a resident." Tristin Allen, MD whined. "Just a first year resident…I, I'm not qualified to do this-!"

Subarachnoid hematoma. CT revealed uncal herniation, decorticate posturing already attacking the arms, papilladema…CSF pressure in lumbar puncture was approaching 60 mm Hg….

"I could kill her-!" The young doctor cried. "You'd need sterile equipment, a goddamned sterile room…you're talking millimeters, millimeters of difference, I can't just drill a hole in her skull I've, I've, I'm not qualified to do this sort of thing-!"

But Amy Lawless was already shaving away thick blonde locks, prepping the bald skull with the deep brown stain of iodine, slivering away the scalp like peeling a blood red orange. "Listen," She snapped, grabbing the other woman by her hard-earned white coat. 'Listen!" The RN yanked her hair, brought her head level with the unconscious patient, IV fluids and anesthetic already pumping desperately into those deflating veins…

"She's dying, damnit, okay? Dying. And you have the chance to save her. I don't give a damn if you're scared or tired or fucking whatever you're the only neurologist I've got and I need you to help her-! So shut the fuck up and just drill the damn burr holes!"

"Okay." Allen moaned, taking the bone saw in shaking hands. "Okay."

* * *

**14: 22 EST **

**Arkham Asylum**

How weak the mind was. Easily compromised, broken. Bent to the whims of the cunning, shattered, picked apart, broken open and into by the stronger-willed. Yet the brain was sheltered in a skull of bone, nestled lovingly in three layers of protective dura, requiring severe trauma to cause the slightest of damage. The same tasks that would require the time of a team of surgeons, a chisel and a hacksaw, burr holes, scalpels and a trained anesthesiologist took mere minutes when observing its inhabitant: the mind.

* * *

**14: 31 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

Dust hanging in the air, thin and filmy, coating the operating drapes. And there, there in that hole of color amidst the deep, dark blue something moved, blowing up like an opaque balloon, billowing slowly out through ruby red grapefruit and rind, juices spilling over the edges, so ripe it could burst-

Tristin Allen heaved a sigh through her mask, rinsing the area clear with isotonic saline as her partner cauterized every bleeding arteriole.. "Okay." She whispered. "Okay. That's, that's dura. That's all we can do. Just let it expand, relieve some of the pressure from the cranium-"

Behind surgical scrubs, breathing mask, and an eye shield of her own Amy Lawless, RN nodded tiredly. "I'll stay with her."

"'Kay." The young doctor said, degloving and heading toward the door.

"Tristin?" The RN called.

She turned, pallid. "Yeah?"

Amy Lawless nodded to the yet unnamed woman on the table. "Thank you."

* * *

**Gotham City Plaza**

Soft. Not stiff. The living limb clutched in his hands he tugged, tugged, on a woman's calf a woman's bare calf-

Grey and misshapen under dust and plaster, limp and yielding, weak and pathetic like a bedraggled doll he pulled the woman from the sodden ashes it had to be Paltron but his mind screamed that no, no this couldn't be Paltron-

But even under a quarter inch of dust and glass, there was no mistaking a GCPD dress uniform. He hauled her up out of concrete and silt, cradling her against his chest and wept as water sloughed from her fleshy lips, breasts rising and falling in retching coughs, unconscious eyes flitting only briefly open in the brightest flash of steely blue.

…There could be no mistaking those eyes.

Solid ground. Concrete slab. He set her down, a shipwrecked sailor above this spreading sea of ash and soot, of scintillating glass and desolation…six years. Six years like a sister cold and aloof took a bullet for him laughed in the face of danger and death…Gwen Paltron, the consummate survivor…even helpless she was like a rock, an anchor, a sense of purposefulness and meaning in this ocean of chaos and doubt. Let it end. Let it end now. Side by side with a sisterfriendcompanionsoulmate he could be content…

He didn't want to wade back to that godforsaken truck. Dig in darkness and damp and doubt, roll each scorched, blackened body, afraid to find the face, afraid to face the truth.

But the memory of a voice rang in the waves of silence, suffocating like the rising pillars of soot and smoke: _"I, I, don't leave me-!"_

But he never could. Never could. Not even now.

* * *

**14: 35 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Dr. Jonathan Crane knew the mind. And sitting in his personal quarters inside Arkham Asylum, he contemplated the masterstroke that had just been dealt to the unseeing masses, shattering their delusions of a peaceful, coherent world. Not just a city, but a nation. Suddenly frightened of the different, the unknown, the terrorists or government behind the attacks, they had become wary, angry, even violent, their collective, herd-instinct now a dichotomy of us vs. them.

Even though they didn't know who 'they' were. And the 'us'? Not even yesterday they were fighting amongst themselves, race and gender, color of skin, sexual preferences…in reality there was no us. There was no them. One could not rely on the protection of a group of neighbors similar to oneself if one truly knew one's self.

The human mind is a fickle, dangerous thing. More readily predictable when broken than whole. The insane followed patterns, patterns like logic, like clockwork, predictable, complex but solvable rhythms of behavior and brainwaves…yet the sane? The sane were unpredictable. A sociopath created by the urban environment and isolation could very well walk into McDonald's and murder 15 customers with a shotgun, yes…but there were warning signs, oft unmissed, and neighbors and family who should be held responsible for letting a murderous madman walk the streets.

But the sane? There was no predicting them. No telling when a completely sound mind would decide-as many did-to engage in violent activities. No telling when a mind one has known for ages will suddenly be stretched to its limits and snap, broken beyond repair…no, the mind was dangerous, and one would be a fool to so quickly trust it. Whoever was behind these attacks certainly understood this. And he? He had dedicated his life to understanding the mind, learning its intricacies and secrets, exposing it and laying bare those chemical synapses, dendritic processes and hypothalamic nuclei that composed the fragile human condition-

Regardless of how terrible, regardless of the ultimate cost…their work deserved-demanded-the utmost of attention and respect. A fervor associated with the delusions of religious fanaticism, finally applied to the only True Cause: logic. And while he sat in speculative awe, contemplating the significance of the current events, his own mind had a subconscious confession: It would be a lie to say he hadn't expected it.

He knew they'd be back. From the moment he first discovered their plans he knew what sort of people he had been dealing with. Yet the young, arrogant mind is easily deceived, and he had been enamored of power and progress as easily as all men in his academic position. History documented that well, the psychiatrist turned god, able to see clearly the shortcomings of the minds of others but oblivious to the madness lurking within his own. He thought he could deal with them, thought he could trust them, thought he had been far, far too important to their overall cause and their schemes for Gotham. He, Dr. Jonathan Crane, had fallen prey to the illusion of immortality. Invincibility. To the pride and power of 'I alone am not expendable.'

Yes, he'd made that mistake, and to that he would admit readily. Thomas Lee, real name unknown, had needed the expertise of a Biochemist and a Psychiatrist willing to partake in experimental drug development…and had used whatever means necessary to coerce them.

And he? He had simply bought their pretense. Had clung desperately to a story even his least cynical side could see clearly through. Georgia had not been kind to him. His great-grandmother had not been kind to him. His grandmother, his mother who appeared only briefly for his high school graduation and again at his undergraduate research symposium both times with different men, had never been kind to him. Life had not been fair, nor right, and he had been mocked, ridiculed, nearly exorcised for being the bastard son of a whorring teenager in a fanatically religious family. Devil's child. Witch's child. There's a curse on you-! And yes, there had been. He'd watched his classmates from kindergarten, petted and coddled like the velveteen rabbit, worn perhaps by a rollercoaster of emotions, but loved nonetheless. And all the while he'd sat, like some hopelessly out of style plaything in the dust, shelved and still in the wrappings, never to be brought to light. All his short, brutal childhood he'd simply wanted…

_Campus security. What a joke. And on his assistant professor's salary, he couldn't afford private security, now could he? What was the point of a restraining order, he swore to the ominous swirls of cumulonimbus in the bleak skies above, if it couldn't be enforced-?_

_But it was too late to avoid the man. Lee was waiting auspiciously on the corner, afforded an excellent window view of his just recently vacated office. But Jonathan Crane had had enough. Something darker stirred within. _ _Bramowitz's__ accidental death at the hands of that misguided, bloodthirsty cop, being ceremoniously dismissed from his seat at Gotham University, so close to getting tenure-! No. Jonathan Crane had had enough for the semester, enough for a lifetime, and as physically un-intimidating as he was something within him wanted-as was only natural as both male and mammal-physical confrontation and violence. _

"_You again. Mr. Lee, as I recall, there exists a restraining order against you and I believe that you were indeed permanently banished from the University grounds?" He wasn't foolish enough to indulge in physical altercation. But a snide, verbal tirade could do much to lift the spirits…_

_A celebrity stalker, the campus police had labeled the man. Obsessed with genius instead of popularity. What had begun as a few bothersome emails and journal submissions had developed into something of far more sinister proportions when Thomas Lee had broken into his office for a personal interview._

_And now he was here again, earnest as ever, unaware and idiotic to think his idol had not dialed campus security the moment he was spotted…_

"_I just want a few minutes, a few minutes Mr. Crane and I promise I won't waste anymore of your time-" the older man pleaded._

"_If you'd like to talk to me I'd be more than happy to oblige. Let's say, the police station?" Jonathan sneered._

"_Jonathan..Jonathan-" The man's pale hand reached out with surprising strength, gripping his coat sleeve. " just a minute, just a minute nothing more…"_

_Frustration. Rage. Disgust. "Unhand me!" He insisted, cursing the man, cursing his own weakness and foolishness for confronting him, cursing the cold rain through his flimsy excuse for a coat bought on a pathetic excuse for salary and cursing the campus police who didn't find it worth their time to protect a man responsible for the death of one of his students-_

_But he wasn't responsible wasn't responsible how could he have known, known there was a killer in the audience it should've been her not him her they charged with negligence and violence not him he had never meant to hurt anyone not hurt them just scare them just to scare them-_

"_Jonathan, Jonathan please-"_

"_Leave me alone!" He had always been alone. And what had once been solitude was now sanctuary. Not accustomed to human company he found he no longer desired it-and this intrusion bothered him more than he ever should have let it, it wasn't temper, lack of patience which meant it went deeper, subconscious, meant something was wrong with him like everyone always said there's a curse on you devil's child witch's child he hadn't meant to kill anyone just scare them just scare Sherry not kill her didn't want anyone to die he had never wanted anyone to die liar, liar, you wanted great-grandmother to die you said it you prayed it when you were young prayed she'd die and your grandmother and mother too, prayed you father would come to claim you prayed they'd all be dead so he'd come and find you-!_

"_Jonathan, please-"_

_But there was something there. In the way he said his name. Need? Regret? And it stirred…pity? Yes. Pity. An anthropological explanation for the survival of the sick and weak even though evolution demanded they be eradicated. Yes, it was pity, pity for this man who had spent all day standing in the freezing rain, now sopping wet simply for the chance to speak to his idol. _

_As he had. Bumbling after father figures. As Bramawitz had. Not just a student not a graduate student just a research assistant no a young man who looked up to him who looked to him found companionship acceptance found…found something he had been looking for. Stirred something in him that made him human, feel whole._

_Ugly cement buildings jutted starkly above them, ugly, gum-smeared cement below, ugly, petol-infused asphalt spread in four directions on into eternity. Rain fell down from the sky on the tops of ten thousand black umbrellas and it was like a funeral, like a funeral in the rain like Bramowitz' funeral not even a family to mourn everything was purposeless there was no sense he'd spent his whole life rising above something only to be shoved back below the surface and smothered slowly-_

_Perhaps they had something in common. Perhaps this pale, shivering stranger too once had been an ambitious young man cast down by family and peers alike, turned out onto the streets disillusioned and depressed until madness took hold and saved him from suicide. Lee was obsessed, yes, but not dangerous. A nuisance. Nothing more._

"_If I accompany you inside this coffee shop that will be sufficient" he asked tersely. " I will sit with you for no greater than one minute and you will leave the University premises immediately?"_

"Yes, yes…"

_But hardly had they sat when Lee began to weep. Beads of water dripping from tendrils of hair, sniffling in misery and regret the man's blue eyes sought his own-_

…_blue eyes. Earnest and streaming. Jonathan's heart leapt and plummeted simultaneously, plunged sickeningly over a precipice and he knew, knew before he heard the words the sudden, awful truth-_

"Jonathan, I'm…I'm your father."

Illusions. Wonderful things. Oh, the inebriated, euphoric stupor, the bliss of neither understanding nor caring, a psychosis where this horrid, dank world was instead filled with naivety and light-!

_Jonathan, I'm…I'm your father_. How easily had they manipulated him! How foolish had he been to fall, and fall so far! The man had been a convincing actor, earnest and sincere, tall like him, and his eyes matched perfectly…and all it took was a DNA test, simply tampering with the results of a paternity test by paying off the lab staff or-he now suspected was the more likely of the two-by providing genetic material from his birth father himself, who in his thirty-some years of existence had never been known nor had stepped forward…and surely, surely had the League of Shadows tracked down the man, he would have been unceremoniously killed and disposed of lest he come forward to ruin their painstakingly laid plans…

Jonathan, I'm your father.

He found he no longer cared. No longer cared that the man he had longed for as a child never came forward, that his childish surety of this man's kindness and goodness lay only in the fact he at least had never inflicted starvation or pain…he no longer cared that he had been taken advantage of, used, then tossed aside like a tool one might garden with. No, grudges were for the weak. He had been abandoned, he had been desperate, and he had been lied to only because he allowed himself to be.

Jonathan Crane would not make that mistake again.

Thomas Lee-whatever his real name was-was _not_ his father. And yet…yet the words rung true. So true. For out of that noble idealism, those months of training in martial arts and meditation another man had been born, a subjugated personality, who though years and years of fear and anger, through cultured hate, had finally broken free through the thick-walled womb of society's pathetic mandates of right and wrong. A persona, Dr. Crane hypothesized, like the Batman, who he became at will, to demand justice for the wrongs being done in this city, in this nation, in this world, for all the abused or neglected little boys who would be forced to seek safety in the world of academia, be preyed upon by pedophiles and homosexual prowlers alike, men like that Kyle Santy who had befriended twelve young men from the Gateway Center for Youth in the Narrows over a span of 8 years, using his influence to coerce or force them into sexual situations…

_God hates fags,_ the anonymous killer had left spray painted above the corpse. And while every religious and anti-hate crime organization in the country moved to protest that ominous writing on the wall, not a one of them had _mourned _Kyle Santy was a childfucking bastard who deserved what came to him_._ That was nearly six years ago. And even then, even before Thomas Lee, Bhutan and Fear Night, even before Bramowitz had confided….

Even then, even then something within him, something other than his stoic rationalism purred at the swiftness and simplicity of the execution of justice.

Crane thought of Bramowitz, thought of the young men with childhoods like himself-he had been lucky to develop an aversion to religion bordering on phobia-who would turn to churches to be molested by priests or simply brainwashed by lies, or the others, falling to drugs and alcohol just like the fathers who had abandoned them and repeat that neglect and abuse ad infinitum…

Something, the Scarecrow had r_ageddemandedinsisted_, had to be done.

He was not a deluded criminal. Not a cheap impersonation of Weber's phantom, bleating pitifully that the world had shown him no compassion, not Shelly's Frankenstein, who lacking love had no reason to return it, not a pathetic, broken mind like those others here in Arkham Asylum, seeking refuge in psychosis and madness. He was logical. Perhaps different, far, far out of the ordinary, but it was they who were confused, they who refused to see truth, they who were content to submit to social institutions and political doctrine that while condemning these crimes did nothing to prevent them…

He was not Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb. Not a cheap imitation, a misunderstood, misguided excuse for the violence raging within, not a justifiable outlet for his own hatred or boredom. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Hardly a way to establish justice, and thus governments and sundry laws had been created to stem the violence, put capital punishment into the hands of an objective third party…But what was it, when continued oppression, when the apathy of the masses kept them blind, dumb and deaf to the pleas of the innocent and needy? The victimized and abused? Was it not only his right, and his duty, but also his _responsibility_, The Scarecrow reasoned, to aid in throwing off such government, such decrepit _ideas,_ and provide for the common defense?

…So he, Dr. Jonathan Crane, had done something about it. Until the Batman had interrupted his trade, he had done something about it. Used that knowledge, that drug, that sense of self-righteousness, that unfailing gift his ideological Father had given him to put the criminals of Gotham where they belonged: their own hellish nightmares: _I told you my drugs would take you places. I never said they'd be places you would want to go…_

Prison. Asylum. The Batman thought he was doing justice by locking people away. But bars could be breached. Life sentences whittled down. The so called criminally insane could be psychoanalyzed, therapized, then released back into their natural environment, redeemed and safe 'for society and themselves.' And the Batman thought it was justice. _Justice? JUSTICE-!? _The Scarecrow cried. If Justice refused to remove her blinds, to look upon the mockery made of her, he would abandon her temple and seek his own…

And he had. Dr. Jonathan Crane abhorred the act of killing not because he had been indoctrinated by the liberal ideology of ethics and academia, or the Hippocratic Oath, but because something darker, something more frightening deep down within him said that no, no he'd had to _live _with the pain, the fear, the nightmares, the injustice of a family who should have loved him, cherished him, accepted him as their own flesh and blood…he had been left for dead, then Beaten. Starved. Enslaved. No. It was only fair, it was only just, to make these criminals live through it as their victims had done. Let them die when they may, the Scarecrow sneered, he'd send them to Hell alive and _screaming…._

To be purely rational, to remove emotion and personal bias from the picture, there were moments of transcendent lucidity when he, Dr. Jonathan Crane, could admit to himself that he respected the Batman. To an extent. But the man was weak, the Scarecrow insisted. Or naïve. Perhaps both. Locking away prisoners in the justice system is if that were where they belonged! No, if you were going to lock a man up, you had to lock him up and _throw away the key._

And that's what made the mind so beautiful. His toxin so poetic: the mind-like Lewis' Hell- was a prison only locked from one side.

Within.

* * *

**14: 50 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Pale. Limp. Still. Nothing-

Then-

Hand pressed over the boy's pallid face, dampened tendrils of dirty dark hair slick and chill under bare fingers SCBA respirator mask pressurizing the lungs there was the slightest, tiniest of coughs and he was laughing cryingweepingprayingcursing like that day in the hospital his son took his first breath the sudden intake of air shrill cries Amy's screaming turning to longing holding that red-stained infant close-

The boy stirred beneath his hands, coughed, blinked, and one trembling, grimy hand reached up from the silt and slime of Phoenix ashes and groped gently for his own. Jimmy Connolly. His partner. His _son_…

…alive.

"Christ, Kid." Lawless whispered, squeezing those slender, boyish fingers between his own, "I thought you were dead…"

Slight smile. Coughing gasp. Detective Jimmy Connolly looked up through gleaming dark eyes and whispered through the respirator mask _I knew you'd find me_.

And those tears that Aaron Lawless had finally staunched began to flow anew.

* * *

**14: 55 EST**

**Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge**

_"Is he out of his fucking mind-!"_

Shots rang out from M-16's as the Batpod raced along the Parkway, hurtling towards the Narrows, her rider bent double in haste and fury, aching to assail his opponent. He was callous. Compassionless. Beyond care and concern. Let Gotham burn. Let it all burn. He would find the Devil and pluck him from this Hell. Let others take care of these petty fires…

Ahead, the dirty grey waters of Gotham's river chugged lazily in the afternoon air, heedless of the tragedy that had struck her city. She cared not, churning on as she ever had done before settlers here began to build so long ago, churned on as she had as diving wells were dropped, foundations poured, and bridging expanses sought to span her. She was deaf, dumb, and blind, her god-like awakeness and attributes either stolen from her by the white men who chased away the natives who had so named and woke her…or perhaps she had always been nothing more than a ribbon of river running to a vast expanse of ocean, meaningless,, purposeless, just the path of water out to sea.

But were she sentient, aware, woken from her ageless apathy once more she would know that the exhaust that polluted her no longer ran, that the bridges that chained her no longer screamed under the weight of speeding vehicles, that the thickly insulated cable wires transferring humming electricity and fiber optics along her murky bottom had ceased to sing. She was, once again, a goddess…

Unbeknowst to her, Operation FAILSAFE had overridden all 8 of the Narrows strategic asset bridges…all designed and built in the day and age when steam boat ferries and barges were the height of naval technology. Boats and ferries that might contain soldiers. Supplies. Things which in an emergency must go through…

And before industrialized steel and alloys, computers and engineering could build them high enough to be out of the way.

And so while emergency evacuation tunnels were open underneath her, 8 of her 12 chains, those ugly suspension bridges seeking like Babel to tower over her, had been indefinitely lifted.

National guardsmen cried out for him to stop. Yet the Batman was heedless of danger, heedless of harm, laughed aloud as the motorbike flew over the first joists of the half-raised bridge, urging her faster, ever faster towards the peak of the black asphalt above. The engines screamed. Throttle shrieking. In a parabolic leap the rear tire tread left the last crumbling pebbles of ground and the Batman was airborne, dark cape like wings outstretched over a naked expanse of ash strewn water-

* * *

**14: 56 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

"You have to take her-" Jimmy protested feebly. "Get her out of here-"

"Hell no." Lawless insisted. "_No_. Kid, I'm getting you out of here-"

But the boy's-the young man's-next words wounded him. Jimmy Connolly was shivering, near to shock, matted head to toe in plaster, smoke, and toxic dust but he shook his head, shook his head and smiled weakly.

"I'm not a Kid." He whispered. "Dad-"

"Fuck, Kid," The Detective panted suddenly. "Don't give me that-"

"She's a girl. You have to help her."

Aaron Lawless, MD, GCPD Detective was intelligent. He knew how to think, reason, had used logic to diagnose complex medical conditions, solve grisly, violent crimes with sparse data and few leads…But there was a part of him, a deep, paternal, visceral part of him untested by the stress of work, by emotional distance from murder victims and their families-

_A woman a woman Paltron's a woman you idiot what the hell are you thinking he's twenty-two not six use your fucking brain, dumbass think, think, think-_

"No." Lawless said vehemently. "No-"

"She's a _girl_." Jimmy insisted. "She's hurt. You have to help her-"

No, no _today_ was the test. _This _was the test. To look your son in the eye and ask him to do as you say, not as you do. To ask the young man you've mentored and trained and given manhood to turn a blind eye to the needs of others, turn your back on everything you've ever stood for-

John and Emily Howe. Marissa and Baby Brent. Aaron Lawless held his son, looked into his eyes, saw what every parent saw _saw your child in need no one would ever think less of you no one could ever blame you no one will call you coward for what you've done what you have to do-_

_Terrified. Shrill. Small child crying out in the darkness I,I, don't leave me-! a gun in his face you pulled a gun in that man's face would have shot him were going to shoot him __You've got to let me through __MY SON's__ in there you've got to let me through get out of my fucking way-!_

But no more. That voice was calm. Reassuring. Plaintive. "You have to let me go." Jimmy coughed. "Dad, you have to let me go…" Detective Jimmy Connolly knew he was injured. Perhaps dying. And that look, that peaceful, serene gaze, dark eyes liquid and ethereal like a hind's in dust-covered lashes like falling snow pierced him with the chill of an icy knife. Jimmy was looking to him. Calling him Dad. Wanting to know he'd done something with his life, that it had all been worth it, wanting his father to know he had the strength, the courage, the fortitude of spirit to be a man…

Oh, shit. And here it is. Your confession. Your weakness. You can't leave him. Not now. Not ever. You've done you'll do have to do whatever it takes…

"Kid, I…I _can't._" The Detective choked. "I, I just can't." Jimmy didn't understand. Couldn't understand. _He was just a Kid just a fucking Kid so innocent so goddamned naïve-_

But Detective Jimmy Connolly was not a Kid. Not a Child. Not a Boy. "She's a girl and she's _hurt_." The young man remonstrated fiercely through gasping breath and gritted teeth. "So are you a man or not? Or has everything you've said, everything you've ever told me, everything you've, you've ever been…has that all, all just been a joke to you? Just pretend? Just, just, just a, a lie-?"

Earnest, earnest, eager eyes. _Let me go. You have to let me go_…And this is what it meant to let a kid go. Let him grow up. Get his license. Graduate. Go off to college. Find a girlfriend. Relinquish that hand, let go of that innocence wince in pain watch in fear let him make his own decisions, choices. Let him make his own mistakes…

…And it _hurt._ God, did it hurt.

"Okay." Lawless said, nodding his head, bristly beard catching on the inside of the fire-suit. He squeezed his son's hand tighter. "Okay."

"I'm not afraid." Jimmy whispered. "You'll come back. I know you will."

"Don't you fucking lie to me, Kid." Lawless grunted. "You're terrified." So was he.

Low, whining sob. Almost a laugh. Undoutably a plea. "You'll come back. Promise you'll come back."

"Yeah." Lawless lied. "I"ll come back. I promise. I'll come back." He sighed. Ran fingers through his hair. Rummaged through the pockets of the flame-retardant uniform for a long-forgotten bottle of Gatorade…

And heaved a sobbing laugh. It was goddamned _cherry. "_Drink this, Kid. Okay? And stay here, you understand? You stay here-"

* * *

**Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge**

Impact.

The titanium frame could withstand the sheer and the shocks could take the force. Like the majority of American automobile accidents, this too could only be faulted to one thing: human error.

Aerodynamic to perfection, hybrid power from nitrogen fuel-injectors and kinetic brakes, with on board computers, cameras and sensors to calculate acceleration and clearance that no human driver could ever replicate, the Batpod, like the Titanic before it, had a fatal flaw: a human driver.

A projectile carries a parabolic arch created by gravity. The point of acceleration is equal to the point of landing, with the height determined by the weight, velocity, and gravitational pull on the object. Perfectly balanced, the pod would have landed in the exact position of take off-

Front wheel first.

But the Batman was aboard, weight thrown backward, and the rear wheel touched down first, burning peel of rubber scraping a fifteen foot long tread against the sloping asphalt at 250 kilometers per hour. There was a sickening screech, the crunch of metal and the world flipped end over end-

Forearms. Ribs. Forearms. Ribs. Tangled legs and flapping cape-

Water. Smoke. Ash. Dust.

Broken glass in the monitors. Chips in the protective paint. Several dents but not scratches in the titanium alloy frame. Upended and spinning, the Batpod continued to gauge a screeching circle in the cement, no worse for the wear, engines whining for the chase.

But her rider lay motionless at the base of the roadway.

* * *

**15: 02 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

It was the Gatorade that did it. Saved his life. He was leaving. Taking Paltron. But Jimmy's shaking hands couldn't open the bottle. Lawless opened it, raised the liquid to the boy's lips, and Jimmy choked on the ash and grime coating his tongue, teeth, gums and throat. Bright, frothy pink pouring between gritted teeth. Instantly the liquid caked, red and scabby against smooth skin-

"You've got to drink it." Lawless coaxed. "It's gonna taste like drinking sand but you've got to get it down-"

The boy swallowed. And at that self-same, shrinking second, Aaron Lawless didn't need to see his son's eyes go wide or roll back in shock, didn't need to feel the boy's tight hold on his arm turn suddenly into a vice-like grip, didn't need 8 years of medical training to tell him something was horribly, desperately wrong.

That same spreading stain splashed down Jimmy's chin had seeped through his shirt as well.

* * *

**Arkham Asylum**

"What's wrong, Scary? Why the uh, long _face_?" The Joker grinned, yellow teeth bared not an inch from the former psychiatrist's nose. "What's wrong? Afraid to _face_ the uh, the truth? Oh…Oh I know what it is. Is it the _scars?_ It is, isn't it." He clucked with sinister empathy.

"N-no." The smaller man barely managed to gasp.

"Oh, he answers!" The Joker snarled, shaking Jonathan Crane like a limp rag. "Ya think that's what I uh, wanted to hear, hmm? That it _wasn't _the scars? Did yourself a nice little evaluation, hmmm? And what did your Nice. Little. Evaluation. Tell you? Be nice? Po-li-tuh? Did your nice books tell you that narcissists like to be uh, lied to? Cause I don't like to be lied to. I think you're a liar, Scary, and you know what happens to uh, liars, don't ya?"

Crane's breath was coming in gulping gasps, sweaty mop of hair slicked against pallid skin. "Ya see, Scary, you're a liar. You're a quack. No wonder they uh, they locked you up in your own Asylum!" The Joker cackled as the sharp, biting scent of warm urine began to waft.

"No, I-"

"No? No-oo?" He raised his eyebrows, licked his lips, smacked the scars around a bit, surveying the scrawny man with squinted, remorseless eyes. "No? Cause I think you lied, Scary. I think they asked you to do an _evaluation _of me. And You. Lied."

"No, I merely-"

"Ya see, you uh, clever scary Scarecrow called me names. Told some lies. Did some objec-tive ex-tra-_po_-lation. And I don't like being called names. I don't like it when people uh…when they uh, _lie about me_." Slimy, squelching sound, the Joker wrenched that sweating face to his, crushed in an iron grip.

"And people don't like being called names, do they. _Do they, Scary?_ People don't like labels and yet you purposefully. Hurt. My. Feelings. What'd they call, uh, you? Stringbean? Icky little Ichabod? Hmm… I know: _Dickless. _That's what you are, Scary. Dickless. You lie about people. You tell lies about people. You lie about everything. See, see ya told the uh, the public here that you _liked_ fear.. Well then you're gonna _love _me. I'll be your _God."_

"What's wrong? Daddy beat you? Abandon you? Did he do _bad things_ to you?" The Joker waggled his eyebrows. "Hmm?"

But Crane could only gasp and croak, fingers slapping weakly against that vice-like hold. "What? No answer? Huh? _No answer_? Well, that's okay, Scary. Cause that's kind of a personal question, and we don't know each other all that well. But to tell the um, truth, I don't really give a shit."

"But here's the real question, Scary, and that's what do I do with you. Oh, obviously I kill Guerrero. And his family. And friends…and his friends' friends And their families, too. But not his dog. That's just unnecessary and cruel and the last thing I need is the ASPCA breathing down my back…those animal rights people really kinda give me the creeps. And besides, do I look like the type of guy who gets off on whacking puppies?"

Silence. Crane was cowed. And choking to death.

"What?" The Joker's grin grew broader, fat bunches of misshapen skin appearing in that impossible sneer of sinister teeth. "No answers _now_, I see. But here's my point, Scary. You've got…well, I wouldn't call 'em friends, cause _friends_ don't leave friends behind in the asylum and break out a mass murdering clown like me, do they? Here's the deal. _They _messed up Guerrero. But they _also_ cut the power. Which meant _they _meant to let _me_ out…later. They meant to _frame me_. And I don't like being framed. My question is, what did they want with you? Did they think I wouldn't figure it out and let you live? Is that why you're here-?"

A bluish tinge had begun to form over that pale face and over those scrabbling fingers. And there was that delicious of ammonia from the urine. "Or did they _know_." The Joker hissed. " Did they know I'd know and they left you here _just so I could kill you…"_

And then, then while his eyes were rolling up no more oxygen he would die alone in a cell in an asylum an unrecognized genius dead like so many worthless others dead like Bramowitz but not like Bramowitz Bramowitz had been innocent-

-the pressure was released. Jonthan Crane was thrown to the floor with a flourish, the Joker's glittering, malicious eyes tearing in mirth. "Surprise!" The Joker cackled, doubling over in glee and hooting. "Oh, man, Scary, ya should've seen your face-!"

Crane was choking. Gasping. One hand around his bruised trachea, the other groping for the floor, trying to raise himself, slick, sweaty and naked inside an orange jumpsuit, no traction on the urine-slicked tile floor, slipping face first back into a puddle of his own piss. Afraid. Terrified. Ashamed. Of course the Joker wouldn't have killed him so quickly. _Don't be a fool_, the psychiatrist chided that hopeful, post-traumatic feeling of elation and life, _it's not over._

Wearily he turned, raised languid blue eyes to the monster standing above him.

"What's wrong, Scary? Nothing to say?" The Joker asked imperiously, batting his lashes and kneeling next to his victim, grinning face laid inches away from the broken man's. "Tsk, tsk. What's wrong, _Bat _got your tongue?" But Crane could only stare, disbelieving.

"Oh, I get it. You're _shy._ Did the other kids pick on you on the playground, Scary?" The Joker patted his head with sickening insincerity. "Take your lunch? Steal your towel in gym class? Hmm? I'd say that's too bad but that'd be a lie. It would've been _great-!"_

Here the Joker nimbly rose, dusted off his jumpsuit without a care in the world and walked whistling out the cell's door.

…only to return. With his dirty, unkempt head still wearing that mocking smile, he tittered, "Oh, and one psychotic sociopath to another? Get some new friends. The ones ya got are _reeeally_ bringing you uh, _down."

* * *

_

**15: 25 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Dim shadows moving through a haze of dust. Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad's deep, commanding tones called orders, arranged rescues, sent squadrons of soldiers and firemen alike through the subways below.. Commissioner James Gordon waited behind the last blockade, waited desperately for some news of his friend. Countless brave men and women had gone in past him, slipped away into the eerie fog. Some returned. Brought wounded, injured, even the dead with them…some did not. And in the mounting pile of disfigured corpses and the gravely wounded he recognized familiar faces.

Policemen. Firefighters. PTA members…faces he knew. Perhaps not names but faces, faces he had seen a hundred times and never bothered to learn their names…

"I need a medic-!" A gruff voice rang. And he was turning, turning, Commissioner James Gordon was turning towards that voice heart leaping in his throat that bulky shadow coming through the smoke-the Batman, _the Batman was back-!_

"I need a medic, just hold on, Kid, Christ, just, just hold on-!"

Dust cleared. Gordon's heart simultaneously leapt then died. Lawless. It was Lawless. Lawless was back-

With _Connolly._

"We need a medic!" Gordon shouted. "Over here this man needs-" but the air was rife with the shouts of hundreds of volunteers, EMS workers, the shrill, shrieking cries of victims-

Even shouting as loud as his mild voice could, Jim Gordon knew no one would ever hear him. He ran instead to his friend, to help carry Connolly away from this mess this disaster find an ambulance further up the Parkway-

But Lawless had dropped that pathetic bundle, dropped to his knees on the secure side of the barricade. "Sir, let me help-" A young medic shouted, shoving through the crowd.

"I'm a fucking doctor!" Lawless barked. "I need sterile gloves, an abdominal pad, fibrin mesh, fluids and a morphine injector-!"

"Yes, sir!" Corporal Kelp returned without a second's hesitation, field kit already opened, fingers expertly seizing the necessary items. "You'll need two fluid, bags, sir, One to clean-"

Jim Gordon stood back, only years of public service training allowing him to override that terrible instinct to do something, to be there, to try and help…even as it was he was hovering.

"I'm out of morphine, sir!" Kelp shouted over the thrumming blades of a passing chopper. Lawless swore again. "Anything else you need, sir!"

"Yeah. A sterile room and a GI surgeon." Lawless muttered. "No, thank you, soldier." Gordon watched helplessly as the young man nodded, then ran to the next bleeding, screaming victim, merely feet away….

"Lawless, I hope you know what you're doing." The Commissioner whispered. But Lawless only grunted.

"It's okay, Kid, it's gonna be okay-" Large hands began tearing at the blood-soaked, dust-coated cloth, Jim Gordon watched helplessly as the boy let out a squeal of terror, slender fingers scrabbling against pawing hands in protest-

"Not gonna hurt you, Kid." The Detective said gently, placing a palm over that heaving heart, hazel eyes meeting those streaming earthen ones, holding that stare tenderly, unblinkingly, until those heavy, coughing breaths ceased and the boy lay still, trembling yet trusting under his shirt came off easily, small hands slipping through sleeves but a blood soaked scab of cotton still remained over the abdomen. Lawless donned the gloves, simultaneously cursing and praying. Slowly, he began to peel.

Connolly let out a cry as though it were his own flesh being torn off. But if the boy could bear it so could he, the Commissioner grimaced. Jim Gordon knelt beside Lawless, knelt and stared. Bare chest. Smooth skin, raised ribs, bruised and broken, startling shock of scarlet on white, glistening and moist. And oozing up through that gash, overflowing only the very edges of that short, slit-like wound was something slimy and snakelike, yellow and pink, writhing and wet-

Jim Gordon turned and retched. "Is that, is that-"

"Intestines." Lawless said without blinking, tearing an IV bag open with his car keys and draining it into that wound. "Most likely duodenum." The boy let out an unending shriek, curled up sobbing in earnest heaving acid and water from the corners of his tiny mouth, gagging, choking, moaning _stopstoppleasemakeitstop-!_

"Can't stop, Kid. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm fucking sorry but I have to clean this you hear me?" Jim Gordon could only watch, horrified, as the Detective continued to prod mercilessly into that wound. A widened, jagged, bleeding wound whose edges looked like raw hamburger. And those shrieks, that blacking out and coming to still screaming twisting convulsing…that would haunt him til his dying day. June 6th, 1944. Marines storming the beaches of Normandy, holding their goddamned guts in their hands, screaming for their mothers…He'd seen Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan as a teenager, and yet those movies did nothing, nothing to prepare him for this…

"You've got peritonitis." Lawless said lowly, crouching over the boy, now maintaining fierce pressure over a fibrin pad. "It's okay, Kid. It's okay go ahead and scream it's alright Kid-"

A father's fear. "What's it mean," Gordon whispered.

"Infection of the abdominal lining." Was the emotionless reply.

"No," he corrected. "…for him?"

Lawless looked up wearily, and their gazes locked. "Means he's lucky not to be in septic shock. Means I need an ambulance and a surgical team and I need them fucking now."

"It's gonna be okay, Kid. You're gonna be fine," The Detective said, leaning forward to place a scratchy kiss on the top of the boy's hairline. "You'll be fine. I promise."

"Don't leave me…" Came a whimpered, wispy whine.

Aaron Lawless sighed. Sighed and finally looked up to address the Commissioner. "Stay with him." There was smoldering fury in that gaze, Jim Gordon saw, a demanding insistence that commanded his complicity…and here, here at this moment, Gordon believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was looking at the Batman, crouched over an innocent in the dust and soot of the Legacy's demise…

And then it was over. The wound was covered in mesh, the heavy sterile pad stained with blots of blood. Lawless stood slowly, shouldering the oxygen tank, and Gordon felt that burning glare boring holes through him. Silence. Even the roaring thrum of helicopters and the keening wail of sirens died until there were no more sounds than his racing heart and heavy breath, and whispered whines of pain from the boy-the young soldier-laying stricken on the ground as piteous and uncomprehending as those German shepherds last night…

"Where are you going," Jim said. But in his heart he already know the answer. _After Paltron,_ was the terse reply.

…Never leave a man behind.

That gruff voice. "You get him on a fucking ambulance, Jim."

The Commissioner nodded. "I can do that."

And Aaron Lawless-perhaps the Batman perhaps not but a hero in every sense of the goddamned word-bowed his head, and walked back into that Hell without a backwards glance.

* * *

**AN: Story-arc continued next chapter.**


	24. Et Filio

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: Last Legacy installment! It took way longer than it should have, but I'm so glad to be done!  
**

**

* * *

****16:00 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

The trip seemed shorter. Briefer. As though no fires could burn him, no falling glass crush him, no sharp obstacles or buttes of concrete stand in his path. It was adrenaline, anger, grief and guilt that compelled him, he had walked in and out of this Hell like Persephone but left a friend behind to Hades.

And there it was. That ghastly firetruck rising out of the Legacy's remains, draped with ash and soot, with crumbled concrete and steel spires….And there she was. Sitting up and shivering, blue eyes glassy and wide. He began to run through the waist high debris, calling her name and clamouring to her side. "Paltron?" He shouted. "Paltron?"

"I can't feel my legs." She whispered. "I, I can't feel them…" Spinal cord injury, an old professor's voice rang in his head. Transverse lesion. Bilateral motor tracks, ALS and sensory circuits as well. She would never walk again- "Here," Lawless said worriedly, "Here, let me look, I need to look at your back-" Her fingers grabbed his arm in a vice-like hold. "You're okay, alright? Just let me look-" Should he move her? Leave her? Yosef and his men were in the plaza now, but it would be hours, hours before they came this far…

"Where's Bear. Bear. Jesus Bear he, he went to throw the damn grenade then took a shot in the shoulder he dropped it he fucking dropped it he pulled the pin then fucking dropped it I can't feel my legs Jon where'sJonJonJon where are you…"

Bare fingers on skin but it was wrong, all wrong, all her vertebrae still intact, no shrapnel, no crushing, no bleeding and no ischemia…there was nothing wrong wtth her back, nothing wrong with her legs, nothing wrong all intact all intact but those hideous scars-

Then his heart stopped cold. "I can't get it off." The woman cried piteously, "there's blood, there's blood everywhere I can't, it's…it's blood…" Ventilator suddenly sharp and ragged. He straightened slowly, slowly, like those moments in the goddamned horror movies when something lurks behind the curtains and you reach out a trembling hand-

Detective Aaron Lawless looked into his former partner's face, and found he didn't know her."Jon…" Her voice petered off into a low whine, and for a haunting second he saw for the first time the shadow of a younger woman on her face. "_Jon_."

"No it's me. It's, it's _Lawless_." Trembling hands uncapped a water bottle. "Okay, okay honey I need you to drink this, alright? Drink it you'll feel better-"

"Are you a medic? We were doing a training op just a training op with the local police we were, we were oh God we were ambushed-! I, I'm from Mortalis…I can't find my dogtags have you seen my unit…I oh, oh God oh Jon-!"

Heart sinking in dread he had to know, had to be sure…"Honey, honey what year is it?" he asked her gently. Baleful blue eyes, cracked, dehydrated lips, grey as a corpse she looked into his face from the ashes and dust to whisper her reply: 2011.

* * *

**16:03 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

Another backboard stretcher. Another ambulance. Jim Gordon sprang up, tried to direct their attention to his charge. "I've got an officer down!" The Commissioner cried. "He needs emergency transport immediately!" But he was met only with a sigh. Another shaking head. The back of this ambulance was crowded with children. Small children. The youngest, clutched in the arms of a steely-faced Sergeant looked no older than BB…

"And I've got an ambulance full of kids." Apologized the medical officer. "I'm sorry."

Jim Gordon nodded, turning away. "I'm sorry, son." He said, kneeling next to Connolly, feeling, as he had ever since the Legacy had first fallen, the guilt of all the injured, dying, or dead. Of course it was ridiculous. Survivor's guilt. But such knowledge made it no less real, no less painful…with a pang he remembered that as Commissioner, it was on his orders that Paltron and Connolly had even been there-

"It's okay, Mr. Gordon." The boy breathed. "It's…it's okay." But father and veteran though he was, James Gordon found he had no consoling reply.

"Gordon. Gordon. Mr. Commissioner, sir!" Came a sudden shout. Jim looked up, and the medical officer from the ambulance was shoving towards them..

"It is an ambulance?" Connolly asked weakly, lifting his head momentarily and opening his eyes for the first time in nearly an hour.

"No, sir, sorry, sir, no can do." The National Guardsman replied loudly, shouting to be heard over the surrounding sirens. "But I've got the next best thing-!"

It was a plastic ID bracelet. Slipped unceremoniously over and tightened around the left wrist. "What is it?" Gordon asked.

"It's a unique electronic signature, sir. Like a barcode-what they do at the airport for your luggage, sir."

"Katrina." Gordon reflected. "I've read about these."

"Only this mother's better." The medic explained, pulling a nasty-looking metal syringe loader from his belt as he knelt next to the boy. "This'll hurt like shit, son," he warned, placing the barrel behind Connolly's left ear and firing. A tiny gasp, another deep, cringing line scarred into that forehead. "This here's a tracking and receiving device, sends out a radio pulse, readable with 1000 yard radius. Now your officer here is activated-" he waved a wand, infra-red scanners emitting a laser-like spread. "And he's in the system. We know where he is, and guaran-goddamn-teed someone'll come for him."

_You get him on a fucking ambulance, Jim._ "Thank you." Gordon said breathlessly. "Thank you."

Behind them, ambulance doors were beginning to close. The soldier was being hailed by his crew. It was time to go. "Yes, sir! Anything else I can do for you, sir!"

"M-morphine…" Connolly bleated suddenly. "…please..."

The medic moved in one fluid motion, and everything paternal in Jim Gordon cried out, nearly moved to stop him as a large bore needle made plunging contact with the flesh. Even stricken Connolly let out a cry and sat nearly up. "Only take a few seconds to take effect." The unnamed soldier said, laying the boy back down by one scrawny shoulder while addressing Gordon again. "Someone'll come for your boy here, Commissioner."

But Gordon wasn't listening. Had already knelt beside the boy, lain a hand on his shoulder, looking directly into those pin-pricking dark eyes. "You'll be alright son."

"I want my Dad." The boy breathed, then grew still, so still that the Commissioner's heart nearly stopped…but no. The morphine had finally-mercifully-taken its effect.

…But there was something else. Looking into those hollow eyes Jim Gordon had a sudden, strange feeling of déjà vu, as though he'd seen the young man before…

_Subpoena. Dent had wanted a subpoena for the boy, and Surillo had finally granted it. The weapon was missing, the victim's testimony was missing...and until they had concrete posession of either, Paltron had been convicted on solely circumstantial evidence._

_"I strongly advise against this!" Quinzel continued to interrupt. "This boy is traumatized by what that woman did to him. He's mute. He can't testify-what do you possibly have to gain by a positive ID? He's a minor. He's been institutionalized. His testimony-assuming you can get it-will never hold up in court-"_

_Dent harrumphed. "Miss Quinzel?" Not Doctor. Miss."If you really have the boy's best interests at heart, shouldn't you focus your attentions on trying to build a case that will withstand the appeal? If that child is a traumatized as you claim, wouldn't your time be best spent trying to keep the criminal responsible for his abuse imprisoned as long as possible? Because as it stands now, I _will _get her off in appeals court-"_

_But neither he nor Dent wanted an appeal. He needed-Paltron needed-the records expunged. Wiped clean. Proven innocent. Released on technicality or faulty protocol would do nothing to allieve the damage he'd done to her name and service. Paltron had sacrificed her reputation, her life, even the chance to ever be with that boy in giving him a second chance...but that boy wouldn't understand that. He was too young, too innocent, too frightened to lie. Sergeant James Gordon was convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt if her Angel could just see her, the truth would be known._

_But in order to tell the truth...he had to continue the lie. "Dr. Quinzel, I've worked in SVU. Worked with CPS. I know how hard this may be for him but it has to be done. He needs to know that we have the right person. Needs to know he's safe, that she'll never be able to hurt him again." But she had never hurt him. Paltron had never hurt him and-according to Nora Fields' autopsy reports- she'd ruthlessly murdered the bastards that had. She'd given up everything for him, and it almost wasn't fair to use that maternal goodness and the boy's innocence against both of them..._

_But the truth must out, Gordon decided. No matter what the cost. He would not let an innocent woman rot in prison for a crime she did not commit...  
_

_"Fine." Quinzel snapped. "But don't expect to build your case on him. He's catatonic and unstable."_

_"An obstacle that can be easily overridden," Dent injected forcefully, "by having you declared incompetent."_

_"Hardly." Quinzel said with an air of superiority, a smug smile twitching across her lips as CPS wheeled the boy in. Just one more anonymous Johnnie Doe. Estimated age, eight years. A sudden, stabbing pain. The boy was cleaner, better kept, long curls shorn short, dressed in pressed white clothes...but those dark eyes told the real truth. Cold, dead, apathetic eyes, uncaring and unfeeling under heavy medication._

_"The hell did you do to him." Dent cried angrily._

_"The only thing I could," Quinzel countered. "He's not afraid anymore, is he?"_

_"Bullshit, that's tampering with evidence!" The young attorney said, going scarlet. "What sort of sick pshrink are you?"_

_No, not afraid anymore, Gordon reflected. Or happy. Or sad. Unable to sense his surroundings he was unable to respond. No more fear. No more pain...no more life. Jim Gordon knelt in front of the wheelchair, knelt and smiled kindly, smiled as kindly as he'd done for young Bruce Wayne not many years ago..._

_"Hi, son." Gordon said. "We need your help, okay?" And just for a second-a split second that was most assuredly his longing and imagination-he thought he found a glint of resentful recognition in that empty stare. "I want to help you." Both of you..._

_"Please, Mr. Gordon, I knows you mean well but you oughta stay back." The CPS worker informed them, wheeling the chair into an interrogation room surrounding by one-way glass. "I don't want you goin' and scarin' him-if you can scare him, that is. He's had a rough life. And you, Mr. Dent, you wanna let that monster back out into society. You best keep your distance, motherfuckah, just so I ain't tempted to bus' your face. Now how this gonna work?"_

_"As the child advocate, you are required by law to stay with him. Mr. Dent, as the prosecuting attorney, is not allowed inside the room but will be watching behind one way glass." Gordon explained nervously, casting a glance to Dent. "And I will...interrogate the boy." He finished weakly._

_"Yeah, good luck wi' that." The social worker rolled her eyes. "I be watchin' this here kid for two months now, and he ain't sayin' nothin' to nobody. That's what."_

_"And Dr. Quinzel?" Dent asked suddenly-and so spontaneously no one watching would ever believe the move to be rehearsed. "Where will she be?"_

_"When interrogating a minor a child advocate is required to be present. As Miss Adams is already doing that, I will allow Dr. Quinzel to assist you in your interpretation of the evidence." Gordon said mildly, overlooking Quinzel's haughty protest. "Is that fair?"_

_"Hardly." Dent said, sharing an impertinent look that showed exactly what he thought of the psychologist's credentials. But the two stalked stiffly down the hall, leaving them alone...almost. Dent and Quinzel were behind the one-way glass, tuning in via microphone. Dent would have to ask questions. Lots and lots of questions. Keep her tied up even after Gordon had dismissed the boy. With some legal creavity-that was undoubtably attorney talk for bending the rules so far as to nearly break them-Dent had conspired with another young, night court attorney to bring in key witnesses for a shooting case in to identify the murderer in a suspect line-up of blond females in their mid-twenties..._

_Of which Paltron fit the profile._

_The subpoema was for written or verbal testimony only. Long experience with SVU had shown him a child could not be forced to testify in open court, and was usually only represented by an audio recording or the public reading of a letter. Surillo had agreed with Child Protective Services that any identification of the perpetrator(s) was to be done by photographs only. "That child's been through enough." She'd said. "He doesn't need to see her again. Doesn't need to be afraid."  
_

_To go against the written court order would be illegal. Possibly incriminating-jeopardizing the safety of a minor was no small thing-as though a plate of bullet-proof one way glass and the presence of armed officers wasn't protection enough. Any evidences they gained would be inadmissible in court. And yet...and yet were the boy to be in the hallway or lobby, were their meeting to be circumstantial-_

_The evidence didn't have to be admissible in court. It simply had to be obvious enough for Surillo to overturn her ruling...and discrete enough that Harlene Quinzel, trained psychologist, couldn't detect their corroboration.  
_

_"I'm Detective Gordon." He began. "I work with the police. How are you doing?"_

_Silence. "He do that alot." Adams shrugged. "He don't respond. Don't matter what you ask him."_

_"I need to ask you some questions. We might be in here for awhile-do you need anything? I can get you a glass of water. Even milk or orange juice if you want it."_

_"Pshaw, Mr. Gordon, didn't you read the file we give you? He don't eat nor drink nothin'. He got a feedin' tube."_

_James Gordon was a mild man. He'd quit SVU because those cases would destroy anyone...and now this child, this boy who'd been through who knows what hell was in the foster system. He should be safe. Loved. Wanted...but instead he was here. here in a wheel chair, with tubes poking in his nose and arms because he was just another number generating revenue for a institution. It wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that he and Barb had tried to have kids, wanted kids, would do anything to have children of their own to have and hold-_

_And here was a child who might never know what that meant. "I'm going to get you some orange juice." Gordon said, perhaps too quickly "Just in case you want some." God, he had to get out of that room, had to breathe, get some air, stop his eyes from watering up-_

_"Here." He said, returning and placing the cup down on the table. "You can drink it if you want to." _

_Minutes ticked by. He asked question after question, sipping at a bottle of water, throat going sore from juggling both sides of the coversation. Dent and Quinzel chipped in occasionally, always contradicting each other. But the interview went nowhere. Not a single question solicited an answer. No promises, no bribes, no assurances of safety could persuade the boy to talk...and under the sedation, Gordon had to wonder if he even could.  
_

_"I want you to look at these pictures." Gordon pressed on patiently. "I want you to help us. I want to know who hurt you so I can keep you safe." But the boy didn't respond. Not even to Paltron's mug shots. No twinges of recognition or emotion, just blank, unfeeling stares. _

_"Told you." Adams said dismissively. "He don't talk none."  
_

_James Gordon was sweating now, sweating profusely. He had only one chance to get this right, only one. If he messed up the timing, if the boy was too medicated to respond...he would never get the chance again. Paltron might win an appeals case, yes. Might. Assuming the jury could overlook the evidence and the charges. But they never would. He, James Gordon, a trained SVU investigator, had been swayed by his disgust. He couldn't expect any other man to do otherwise._

_For nearly an hour he continued. The only sounds were Adam's deep sighs and the droning monotone of his own voice. Occasionally, if he moved, there might be a steady sloshing sound from the water bottle or the viscous juice across the table. But if the boy was interested in it, he paid it no heed. Not once did he so much as stir or look down to it. It turned tepid in the styrofoam cup, undrunk.  
_

_And then-in his earpiece, Dent's phone ringing. "Sorry!" His voice came tinny and muffled. "Sorry, I forgot to turn that off-"_

_"You should be more professional." Quinzel snapped. "You could seriously interfere with this investigation!"_

_"It's alright." Gordon sighed. "I think your assessments may indeed have been correct, Miss Adams, Miss Quinzel. I don't think he's willing to talk." He turned back to the boy, his SVU training superceding the urge to reach for his hand. "I want to help you, son. I want to keep you safe. Will you remember that? If you change your mind?"_

_"Aw, you're nice." Adams said, packing up her things. "Most people just talk about him instead of to him. It's pointless, but it's still sweet. You must've done real well in SVU. C'mon, kiddo. Let's go."_

_There. As the chair was bumped over the door, James Gordon would have sworn on his wife's life the boy made eye contact. Once, and only once.  
_

Dark, liquid eyes. And Connolly was what? 22? 23? He'd be the right age. But it wasn't _possible,_ was it? Jim Gordon stared at the young man laid so still before him with a growing sense of dread and doubt. Starved of sleep, craving rest, an end to this nightmare, to this horrible hell not knowing dream from delusion tired weary mind playing tricks _it's because you still feel so guilty because you've been thinking about Paltron that's why you see it…_

Because it just wasn't possible. Detective Jimmy Connolly? Paltron's Angel-?

* * *

**16:20 EST**

**Gotham City Plaza**

A merciless August sun was lost in a haze of dust and smoke, but high, high above the Legacy's wreckage she shone still, raising the earth's temperature to a swelterimg 98 degrees. Sweat poured from his forehead and arms, slicking the inside of firesuit. It was just too much. The equipment. The exhaustion. The added heat of the smoldering ash…and Gwen Paltron was a tall woman, lean and spry, 180 pounds of sheer grit and solid muscle. Even with her in a fireman's carry, he was staggering to his knees…

Reason told him to rest. Slow down. His adrenals had run out of adrenaline, or so it seemed. Wearily he knelt, set Paltron down as gently as he could, and rummaged for another Gatorade. Drink it, his mind told him. Lessen the weight. Replenish your fluids. You have to be strong…

But he was just so goddamn sick, so goddamn tired of being strong. "Paltron," The Detective choked. "Paltron, do you think you can walk?"

But she was talking nonsense, shaking, utterly shell-shocked. He tried in vain to hoist her up again found he no longer had the strength. Straining against her weight he thanked God he'd gotten Jimmy out first...if he had tried to take Paltron he would never have made it back.

"Honey, I need you to walk with me," he said. "Okay? I need you to walk-"

She cringed. Collapsed. Fell down in a crumpled heap still moaning pathetically for Jon...whoever the Hell he might be. He couldn't carry her. And Paltron-or whoever this strange woman in dilerious dreams was-wouldn't walk. He couldn't leave her. Wouldn't leave her. She'd always been the one to drag him away from danger, plunged him underwater on Fear Night, saved his life, saved his ass so many countless times it was terrifying, utterly terrifying to see her so helpless, so weak, so changed-

"Paltron. Paltron-!" Lawless shook her again. " Damn it honey, I can't carry you!" Then he did what he never wanted to do, what he promised he'd never do since the age of 12, what no man deserving of that name would ever even contemplate. He swung back a hand, and struck her. _Hard._

Blue eyes blinked. Squinted. Widened. "Lawless," She choked. "Lawless, what the fuck-what the…Legacy. Oh God, oh my fucking God-"

"Paltron? Paltron-!" He slapped her again, small trickles of blood running out her plaster coated nostrils, congealing instantly in the haze of dust. She blinked again. He drew back his hand yet again and was met with a full-on roundhouse punch to the jaw. "Damnit, Paltron." He grunted, falling to the ground with clenched teeth and ringing in his ears. She blinked hard, focusing on his face, then dropped her guard.

"It's you." She whispered hoarsely, then her eyes widened. She turned, blue eyes panicked, staring at the dark cavern under that goddamned truck not 30 yards distant. "Oh shit." She said shakily, scrambling in a soldier's crawl, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit-"

"Paltron," He called, "Paltron-!"

"Connolly." She rasped. "Connolly. He's under there-"

"No." Lawless said. "No. He's with Gordon."

"Gordon?" She choked wildly. "_Gordon?_ How-"

"Not important." Lawless grunted. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," She replied through gritted teeth, accepting his proffered hand, "Yeah, I can walk. I can fucking _walk_…"

* * *

**16: 45 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

The woman was dead. Amy Lawless removed the intubation, wiped the last strands of frothy spit off the corpse's cyanotic lips, gently removed surgical pins and pieced the scalp together again, rinsed away blood and iodine until the skin awas clean. With trembling hands she replaced the surgical drapes, covering her final patient-a unnamed, unknown but no less missed human being-with the dignity all death deserved, then turned away.

Chavez had been right. She was dead. But standing in the scrub room, facing her red-eyed reflection once more, Amy Lawless, RN, was finally able to hold that gaze unashamed.

The woman was dead. There had been nothing they could do to save her-but she had _tried._ God as her witness, had she tried…

* * *

**16:32 EST**

**Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge**

Bruce Wayne had done some stupid things in his life. He'd stolen that arrowhead from Rachel only to be told later she would have given it to him if he had asked. He'd fallen in that cave and instead of being brave he'd been a coward, a goddamned coward who had to leave Faust and had gotten his parents killed. He'd been an angry, self-absorbed, arrogant bastard who despite a guardian's best efforts had made the worst of his life at every turn possible. When he'd wanted something he'd taken it. No, not stolen, but taken nonetheless. There wasn't a girl in high school he couldn't impress with a Lamburgini and backstage passes to anything she'd wanted to see. And they'd thought him a bastard, but a rich one, and weighed the pros and cons and slept with him anyways. Self-entitled and angry, still a coward at heart though his father's dying breath begged him be more he'd tried to kill Chill, kill him as though that would ever be justice, as if it could ever make things right...

But now, ten years later, Bruce Wayne had learned from those mistakes. Taken those tragic events and turned them to whatever good he could. But in doing so he hadn't rid himself of that darker persona. He'd become consumed. He could wrest the Batman back in his mind, tie him down in some empty corner of his consciousness but he couldn't _control _him. There was a rage, a desperation, a lustthrirstthrill for justice and order, for retribution that festered deep in his soul for his mother and father, a scar to his psyche, and now the scab of Rachel's death had been torn open anew with the gaping gash of Alfred Pennyworth, surrogate father and mother, grandparent, mentor, friend-

Bruce Wayne had done some stupid things in his life. For many he had repented. Made restitution. But to err is human, and even the Batman wasn't just an idea. Not only a symbol. He had limitations. Constraints. Flaws and faults. There are no perfect heroes, no Dark Knights, no incarnations of justice. We may choose, try, strive to become something more but deep down inside, under guises of placidity, Nobel Peace prizes and Sainthood...we are all only Men. Pretending.

The Batman woke with a cry on the tarry street, skin burnt from friction and sun, fingers scabbed and ribs bruised with the force of the fall. But he could ignore the pain. The pain was nothing. He staggered up, clutching scored limbs in rage and let out a cry that echoed across the empty expanse of waters, reverberating off the raised bridge halves and lingering, fell and deadly in the sun-smoked sky.

* * *

**16: 46 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

Minutes passed. Hours. Days. And in the chaos and destruction Jim Gordon could believe his city, his life had always been so, grey, wavering shapes in the sweltering afternoon heat. The rest was all a dream, Barb, Jimmy, BB, all a fleeting speck of oasis and imagination...but no. No. James Gordon remembered a woman's smooth skin, the smell of her hair, glint off her smile, taste of her lips...Barb. Barb was real. And this, all this, dust and ash spreading out over the horizon, blotting out even the sun overhead was incomparable to her firm reality. And suddenly, Lawless was back, bringing Paltron with him, staggering stubbornly through the reek of ashes and smoke. Commissioner James Gordon experienced an eerie, elated thrill, but seconds before safety his friends collapsed. Gordon resisted the instinct to run and help, he'd been given orders, been charged with watching Lawless' son, couldn't abandon him now. But glancing at the clock on his phone he felt sickened. It had taken Lawless so long to find her...and yet Connolly was still here.

Two paramedics surged forward towards the barricade, helping Lawless lift her over."I'm fine," he rasped. "I'm fine-fuck you, I said I'm _fine_. You need to help her-"

"I think she's just fainted," the black EMT said, after a quick check for pulse and light reflexes. "Dehydrated. Whoever the hell she is she's damn lucky."

"No fucking shit." Lawless coughed, slowly shedding that sweltering suit. "That woman'd survive a nuclear holocaust."

"No shit, huh?" the EMT's badge read E. Westphal. "You know her?" Lawless gestured to his sweat-soaked, disheveled clothes, barely recognizable as the uniform of Gotham's finest. Westphal chuckled, prepping an IV site with an alcohol swab. "Hey, man, I could tell you were only moonlightin' as a fireman. Don't quit your day job-that was the worst impression of an FD I ever seen. What you thinking-letting her walk like that?"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Lawless warned. "You stick her while she's out and she'll punch your face in-" The Detective's voice trailed off, scanning eyes fixating on the victims stretched on the littered ground. There. Amongst what must have been thirty others. Jim Gordon. Kneeling beside-

"Oh, hell." Lawless whispered. "Gordon!" And with his last bout of strength he placed an arm under the unconscious woman's shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged her to Connolly's side, the EMT running behind in protest.

"C'mon, man-" Edward Westphal began in protest, but drew up short. There was a kid. A kid on the ground with an large bore IV going in the left arm and one hell of a bandage swatched across the upper abdomen. Surrounded by the bleeding, screaming, limbless living and the of chaos of burned, mutilated corpses it was so commonplace as not to merit attention. But it wasn't the kid on the ground. Wasn't the Policeman-would-be-Fireman dragging his comrade, limp legs flopping like a rag doll's...it was the man kneeling on the ground. The slight, unassuming, harrowed man that cop had just called-

"Gordon, what's going on, Oh God, he's not, he's not-"

And Aaron Lawless dropped to the ground, sobbing in relief with the Commissioner's tired shake of head, one hand laid gently on his son's face. "Hey, Kid." The Detective choked.

"Hanson, this is Westphal." Ed called over the portable radio. "I've got our guy. Northside of 97th." He turned to what had to be James Gordon. "Commissioner, I've got a team coming in. It won't be long."

"She alright?" Gordon finally asked. Gwen Paltron lay sprawled beside Connolly, steely eyes winking underneath her lashes.

"Dehydrated." Westphal said, kneeling to start the line. "But other than that she looks fine." The sharp bevel of the IV pierced the flesh of her arm, and she jerked, fingers scrabbling relentlessly against that line, tugged sightlessly against the tape and moaned.

"Paltron, Paltron!" Lawless called. "Honey, t's just an IV-"

"Lawless?" Gordon repeated the question, all his trust in this man whose love could perform surgery on a struggling son, and allow him to walk purposefully into that Hell not once but that tone was wrong. Even now, that tone was wrong-

"It's um, it's bad." The Detective choked, unconsciously stroking the boy's matted hair. "Her electrolytes are low. She was, she was hallucinating for part of it. Seeing things. She um, she kept calling for someone...I think she was calling for someone who must've...must've died-" his words trailed off, following the slight, slow movement of her outstretched fingers falling in a slow, swan-like curve towards his own. For a moment they met, then trailed like tears down his son's sleeping face-

Reflexive. Instinctual. Jimmy Connolly rolled his head to her touch, dark, doe-like eyes flitting open. And in one shrinking, silent second, thirteen years of residual nightmares and memories became crystal clear.

* * *

**16: 51 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Ambulances. EMS. The Batman veered through the gathered crowd of emergency vehicles at breakneck speed. But on the horizon, spread like a blanket around the barbed wire perimeter, spilling in through every gate-way was a sea of bodies, churning, fighting, pressing forward, their combined voices and chants unintelligible and awful in the afternoon air.

With a squeal of rubber and the threat of whiplash, the Batman pulled the pot to a screeching halt. In his haste, his anger, that suffocating fury he had forgotten. Forgotten he was not the only to carry a grudge against this foe.

National Guard. SWAT. Riot shields and rubber bullets. Transfixed, he dismounted, and stared out at the mounting chaos. For the first time in three years, he had to take a side**...  
**

**

* * *

**

**17:07 EST**

**Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway**

The man's voice was gentle. Coaxing. Filled with sincerity and concern. "Paltron. Paltron, he's, he's hurt bad. He needs to go to the hospital-"

In thirteen years as a Gotham City Paramedic, Jennifer Hanson had never seen anything to compare to this, unless perhaps it was the desperation with which an illegal immigrant clung to her child as INS deported all of a family but the legal US born citizens….working in emergency medicine she'd seen her fair share of children ripped away from screaming mothers, fighting CPS or GCPD tooth and nail for their child. And this woman had to be a mother. _His _mother. A connection so visceral, so tangible, so poignant it could be nothing else…

"I've got him. I've got him." The blonde woman hissed to the assisting officers and paramedics, hoisting the boy up despite her own injuries, keeping him cradled against her chest. Denying help, denying pain, denying everything but her love for her son she began to walk. Hanson could only watch, transfixed, as the woman staggered, barefoot, one slow step at a time to the waiting ambulance…

"Don't leave me!" The boy cried, resisting EMT Edward Westphal's attempts at oximetry and a bp monitor. Hanson herself slipped the oxygen mask over his protesting face as he struggled again for that woman-

Hypoxia. Electrolyte imbalance. Dehydration. Head trauma. Grief, anger, loss. She'd dealt with combative patients before, especially on Fear Night…but this, this was _different._ Deliberate. He had to be delirious and yet…and yet something deep within her stirred, watched him surrender with the woman's soothing command, and Jennifer Hanson knew with a woman's instinct that even under the pain, shock, morphine and terrible trauma that the boy was somehow able to comprehend.

"I'll come back for you." The stranger choked. "I promise. Whatever it takes I'll come back for you, Angel…" The boy was finally sleeping, and the mother bathed his face and hair with kisses and tears-

"Ma'am?" Joshua Jacobi came forward as Hanson watched numbly, and placed a hand on the stranger's arm. "We need to go."

The woman nodded. Sniffed. Wiped red eyes and a dripping nose down her plaster-soaked shirt sleeve before placing one last, final kiss into the boy's hair, then wrenched away.

"Who the hell _is _this guy?" EMT Shane Cochran sneered as the doors banged shut and the ride-what must have been the hundreth ride-began with a jolt. "The fucking Messiah?"

Tempers were flared. Adrenaline pounding. Even EMT's in Gotham City were not immune to stress. But Paramedic Joshua Jacobi, a devout and unashamed Jew, refused to take the bait. Cochran was young. Arrogant. Not a believer. Getting mad had never solved any of the world's problems, and it certainly would do nothing to help their cargo clinging precariously to life.

"You don't recognize him?" Jacobi offered instead. "He's the Kid from those Ads. _Stop the Violence._"

"Oh, shit." Jennifer gaped. "Cobi…it _is_ the Kid from _Stop the Violence_! Ed! Reroute us to the closest facility, we've go to get him in the OR, stat!_"_ She called forward to the driver. Westphal whipped the ambulance nearly 180. The closest medical/emergency facility was Arkham Asylum...but he radioed in to be sure they had the proper facilities and equipment. It wouldn't help this kid any to get him to the nearest facility if they didn't have the necessary surgical team...

But as Westphal drove, tensions remained high in the abulance bay. "Yeah? And what's so damn important about the _Stop the Violence_ shit?" Shane Cockran asked testily. "The Legacy just blew up. Don't you get it? There is no Stop the VIolence. Not anymore. Nobody's gonna be stupid enough to even think about trying to stop it ever again. So who gives a shit about some damn ad campaign?"

Hanson and Jacobi exchanged a meaningful glance. "Public morale." The Jew said with gravity.

"I don't know about that, and I don't know who that woman was, but sure as Hell I know _Commissioner Gordon_ when I see him." Edward Westphal agreed from the cab as he accelerated through the crowded streets.

"And-?" Cochran grumped.

"And I know well enough that whatever scares the shit out of him should do the same for all of us."

* * *

**18:55 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

The sun was setting again, and unbeknownst to all present, when she did, darkness would fall with finality over the Screaming City…a darkness like Sir Edward Grey's, in which the lights might never be lit again in their lifetime. Darkness. But not despair. Lawless didn't know it yet, but 2,343 had been located with Wayne Enterprises sonar equipment. But he did know that among those numbers were both a son and a friend…

And he would pay any price for them.

A heavy coughing from the tiny, unisex restroom. Detective Aaron Lawless cracked open the door. "You okay?"

"Fucking fine." Paltron was bent over the sink, half-dressed, skin shiny and raw from scrubbing. She choked again, an eerie, throaty sound, dull and scratchy and deep. Steaming water poured from the rusted spigot, rising in pain-dulling swirls to her haggard face.

"You sure?"

"Lawless, I just had a fucking _building _dropped on me." She wrenched the faucets off, raising her dripping face to stare him in the eyes. "I think I can handle a little Vick's Vapor Rub."

The Detective chuckled cautiously. Same old, bitchy Paltron…or was it? Not hours ago he had seen her broken, beaten, weak beyond recognition…

_Piercing shrieks turned to desperate whispers, feral cries to gentle purring, Kid's face pressed to her chest, hands in his hair…nuzzling, fondling, caressing-a fierce gentleness none would have believed her capable of-_

_Shock. Disbelief. Awkward, hesitant silence. He couldn't have felt more intrusive, more embarrassed if he had walked in on them making love. Yet this was deeper, stronger, more sacred and intimate-_

It was now or never. "You and, you and Connolly?" He ventured.

She looked away, flashing blue eyes dull and guarded. "You wouldn't understand." The Detective nodded, then shut the door, knowing undoubtedly in his heart that he did.

* * *

**19:10 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

_FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel: Arkham, this is Trauma One, I repeat, Trauma One be advised patient is male, late teens, early twenties suffering puncture and infection of the abdominal lining and blood loss. O2 at 2 liters. .Saline drip running at 750 cc's, morphine bolus administered. Please stand by for surgical intervention-_

Edward Westphal hung up the radio and called back into the bay, utterly sick at heart. If only they'd stayed the course to Methodist the boy would have been in surgery by now. In their eagerness to help him, they may have sentenced him to death. "How's it going?"

Hanson shrugged wearily, blinking red-rimmed eyes. "I'll give the kid credit, he's still alive."

"He's not a kid, he's a police officer." Jacobi chided lightly, holding up a battered leather wallet. "He's one of us." Public service personnel. Not a civilian.

"Lot of fucking good it'll do him." Shane Cochran moped. "Only difference 'tween this guy and every other one we've had today is they'll fire a salute at his fucking funeral."

"Enough," Jen hissed. "This day's been tough on all of us, so shut the hell up or grow the hell up, alright?" The cop stirred listlessly, fingers jerking. Joshua Jacobi looked patiently away, while Cochran just chewed his tongue, glaring. Hanson held that stare for nearly a minute before turning back to their cargo with a sigh. It wasn't worth fighting over…this petty, shitty argument on this shitty, shitty day. The EMT looked down at the young man on the gurney, watching numbly as Jacobi slowly uncapped another bolus of morphine. As much as she hated to say or think it, as much as she tried to fight off the overpowering gloom, her co-workers were right.

…but it wasn't a lost cause. They could still make the dying as comfortable as possible.

He didn't need to be awake for this. Didn't need to here them arguing. Didn't need to know the reason he was dying was because they were surrounded not only by emergency vehicles and medical staffers but an angry, chanting crowd as well, screaming for the Joker's blood.

_Jokerjokerkillthejokerthejoke'sonyoumotherfucker-!_

The National Guard was here. GCPD as well. They'd watched with horror as a team of paramedics and their military escorts had been decimated by the unfeeling mob. There was no going forward. No going back. The alloyed frame of the ambulance was their only protection against the senseless masses and stray bullets from enraged security personnel. Even for Jacobi, a 20 year EMS veteran, things in Gotham City had never looked worse._  
_

"There's someone out there." Jennifer heard herself say with eerie calm. "Do you think they gave him up?"

"Would you blame them?" Jacobi asked gently, answering her seemingly rhetorical question with one of his own. But the struggling figure pressed, milled, hemmed by the bloodthirsty, crazed crowd wasn't wearing Arkham orange. Through reaching hands, tossed garbage and pelting cell phones the EMT's could barely make him out-

Was it just possible? The _Batman-?

* * *

_

**20:15 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Ceiling plaster trickling down, smoke rising from emptied chambers, acrid scent of flashbang still bitter in the air. For a shrinking moment, the only sounds in the darkness were Ramirez's whimpers and Paltron's heavy coughs-

Then: CLEAR! And the lights came flickering back on.

Jim Gordon blinked in pain and surprise.

Eleven black-clad men in Kevlar stood around the room, guns over the hearts and heads of his officers. Montoya was slammed against the east wall, Ramirez thrown to the floor, Milton and Allen lay prone, noses bleeding, blinking slowly. A heavy, black boot crushed Lawless' face against the cold tile, one arm twisted mercilessly back behind his shoulders. He himself sat wincing in a choking headlock, painfully aware of the rifle jabbed roughly over his heart…

…Two more lay motionless next to Paltron.

Yet even then-even then-she was the first to speak. "Who the fuck are you people?" She coughed, spitting dirty strands of cropped blonde hair, trembling in rage, three rifle muzzles cold and final against her heaving carotid.

_Paltron-!_

"NSA, bitch." The man holding Gordon snapped, relaxing his grip and nudging one his limp comrades with the toe of his shoe. "We might you ask the same question. Two dead federal officers-" He let out a mocking whistle of approval. "you're in some deep-ass shit now, honey."

_Goddamnit, Paltron!_

"Oh go fuck yourself," Allen gasped from the floor, raising his head. "Biggest terrorist attack in US history just happened, man, you barge in here without any warning how the hell you expect us to respond?"

"Wasn't talking to you, _Jim Crow_." The man spat. Gordon tensed, even in fear his blood had turned suddenly to ice. The temperature in the Tracking Room dropped by ten degrees, and Allen's haughty stare turned murderous. Montoya swore in Spanish and kicked her captor viciously.

Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be, please-! The Commissioner begged. But the NSA agent only continued his jeering: "And you, _Chiquita Banana_, keep out of this, unless you wanna celebrar this Dia de los Muertos with the Familia for real, yeah?"

"I'm from the Dominican Republic, Bastardo!" Renee snapped, white teeth bared, strong arms struggling against the hands that held her. "ACLU's gonna sue your ass!"

It was getting ugly. Too ugly. Too fast- Gordon thought. He had to step in, to intervene, to keep them safe-

"Leave them alone," Lawless' muffled voice rang, a deep, gravelly growl. "Police protocol-assume any armed man is hostile until he can show a badge-"

"Oh, lookie-here!" The still unidentified agent circled closer. "You seem to know an awful lot about police protocol…too bad you fucking missed the part about entitling a private corporation to use and publicize military secrets." His voice was lyrical, sing-song, mocking. "Alright kiddos, seriously, playtime's over: who's in charge here?"

Silence. Eyes darted back and forth, every second precious-

"Time's up." There was a sharp, jarring click, the inescapable sound of a chambered round echoing in his ears. "Shame."

No time to react.

A ringing gunshot. A strangled shout of pain. Jim Gordon blinked, shell-shocked, face and glasses now dripping with a friend's scarlet blood, burning against his chilled skin. Lawless. And for one agonizing moment, he forgot to breathe-

* * *

**20:19 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

The bitch was strong. He'd expected to snap her neck like a pencil, kill her quickly, quietly. But the little EMT had some fight-tuh in her. Ordinarily he'd draw it out, play with his prey hungrily….but he was in a uh, hurry. And there was just something he hated about killing women-

"Shh, shh, shh-" He hissed through gritted teeth, covering her gasping mouth. "Sorry, sorry, sorry-" he murmured as he patted her damp cheek, slick with sweat and tears…

Finally those breasts stopping rising and falling, the squelching crunch of her broken hyoid and the emptiness of her bulging eyes and blue lips confirming his clandestine diagnosis. Ding dong the wicked witch was dead.

He undressed her quickly. Her skin was soft and smooth, so warm to the touch. It wasn't fair to leave her like that-tuh, now was it? Not where those prick cops would come and see and take damn CSI photos of her undressed corpse, entertaining themselves with absolutely horrid fantasies of screwing her. He might be a murderer but even to him that was hmm…cold.

A grinch's grin spread across his face. He had a body. And a uniform to dump. Why uh, not? He mused, gifting the bitch with dignity in death, his overlarge orange Arkham jumpsuit now zipped around her. Where are you, darling. He whispered to the skies, eyes squinted into yellow slits, searching the darkness for the Batman. I know you've missed me. He patted his chest, found a name tag: EMT J. Hanson. He looked back at the body in regret. J. Hanson. What a waste.

So. Under the light of emergency spotlights, in the glaring blaze of the whirring sirens of two hundred emergency vehicles, in the swelling roar of the gathered throng shouting JokerJokerkilltheJoker-!, the popping sound of rubber bullets and the whooshing hiss of tear gas, the shrill shrieks as MEDUSA swelled and burst skin like ripe berries, Gotham's most wanted walked calmly into a crowd of identically clad emergency workers…and disappeared.

* * *

**20:20 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"COCK-SUCKING BASTARD!" That saber-toothed snarl was undeniably Paltron's, tinged with the sickening thwack of rifle butt on bone, sending her sprawling back to the tile floor.

The Commissioner blinked again, eyes tearing in the salt of dripping sweat and serum. Lawless. Lawless was cringing, panting hoarsely, a gaping, meaty wound spurting blood from his bicep, shirt slickened and face splattered in shocking scarlet. "T's okay…it's just a flesh wound-" The detective whispered, face pale, eyes clenched shut, deep chest taking short, agonal breaths…

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU-!"

"And you, _GI Jane_, don't even think about it-" That black-clad menace kicked the Beretta away from her outstretched fingers, leering over her trembling form. "Think you're tough? Think you're tough, bitch? Think you're Hitler's little wet dream, don't ya." He whispered, flashing his badge anew. "Dare you to try something."

There was a second of sinister silence. Then with a Gorgon's stare she spat blood into his open eyes.

A swift kick. Croaking retch. Mechanical Click. Chambered round. Colt revolver pressed into her blond hair now as she curled into herself, gasping, nauseating pain eating from pelvis to ribcage, heart burning, cold sweat beading on her face. Lawless bleeding, Ramirez sobbing, Montoya screaming Allen yelling shouting swearing Milton kicking cursing-

Commissioner James Gordon blinked in shock, uncomprehending…

Then the dam broke.

"Enough!" He cried. "ENOUGH!"

* * *

**20:33 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Gone.

The Joker was gone. The Batman stood silhouetted above the skyline on the topmost peak of Arkham Asyslum, watching the dancing lights of a thousand emergency vehicles flicker in tandem, scintillating like eerie earthborn stars against the blackness of the city's shadow. Gone. The room was empty, the grounds empty save for the girl's still warm, broken body, found dead and dressed hastily in an orange jumpsuit…the color coded designator of the criminal and criminally insane.

The Joker was gone. And looking out over the sea of ambulances arriving and exiting over the Narrows' small toll bridge, it didn't take a genius to figure out how. Nor where.

The son of a bitch was loose. Loose again on the citizens he had sworn to protect…and for a hopeless moment he felt again the still smoldering heat of the blast, tasted the choking, oily smoke, felt the soft misted spray of thousands of gallons of raining water falling like bitter tears.

And now, like a year ago, he found himself bearing that self-same burden: Rachel. Dead.

…and now her killer was back.

* * *

**20:34 EST**

**GCPD Tracking Room**

Heartbeats. Blood pouring down Lawless' weakening arm.

"Gonna ask you one more time: Who's in charge here?" The NSA agent spun slowly, purposefully locking eyes with each of the male officers in turn. A black, mountain of a man returning his gaze with a murderous stare; a pale, pudgy officer in uniform, headset crooked over his face; the panting man still cringing on the floor, blood mixing with his greying, auburn hair, and the small, panting plainclothes, face haggard, glasses askew, mouth still hanging open from that last warning cry-

Cold sweat broke out on Gordon's forehead. That bastard chuckled, moving closer, pressing the muzzle of the pistol into the heaving flesh of the GCPD Commissioner's neck, forcing his face upwards to his own.

Time stopped. Ramirez turned away. Even Crispus Allen closed his eyes.

"Who's in charge here, huh?" He whispered, Gordon's blanching face now only inches from his own. "Which one of you fuckers is Commissioner _Aaron Lawless?"

* * *

_

**16 Hours previously...  
**

_He knows what's coming. And you know what he'll do. He'll try to stop it, stand in the gap with one fucking finger plugging the dike, yelling for all others to stand clear. He'll take the blame. The fall. That's who he is. What he does._

_"You don't turn this off until you receive direct orders from me…or a suitable and authenticated replacement."_

_You bow your head. Close your eyes. Because you know you can't let him make that decision. That sacrifice. And his goddamn self-sacrifice dooms you because someone has to take the blame, someone has to be responsible…and you know in your heart of hearts it can't be him. Anyone but him._

_Allen's got a family. Ramirez, Montoya…women. To be protected. You can't throw them, or watch them get thrown to the dogs. And Milton? Good man. Good cop. But not great. He will not. Would not. He recognizes heroism when he sees it…but is not one himself. No. No, it can be anyone but Jim. Anyone but Allen and Ramizez and Montoya and Milton…and that means it has to be you._

_No, you say. No, Jim, you've done this before. You've given too much. You've never learned to be a real commander, never learned that in war there must be casualties, for victory there must be sacrifices…and part of being the leader is being goddamned willing to send the soldiers off to war, to let the pawns go first…you can't always protect them, Jim. An army has countless privates, but only one general._

…_And that's you, Jim._

_And when this is over, if it's ever over, the people will be looking to you. Looking to you like they still look to HarveyfuckingDent. You've lied. You've learned to become a politician, Jim. Now become a goddamned general. Learn to be a man._

_Barb needs you. BB and James Jr. need you. Gotham needs you. Needs a hero with a face._

_You'll understand someday, Jim. And until you do, take care of my family. All my family. Amy…won't understand. Ian can't. And if...and if you find him look after Jimmy. Train him. Teach him. It's all I ask in return.

* * *

_

…shock.

All eyes blank, bewildered, staring at the bleeding man on the floor. And Detective Aaron Lawless smiled as the tight grip around the Commissioner's collar lessened, and the gaze of all eleven NSA agents pierced him hawkishly.

"I am."

"This is Commissioner Jim Gordon-he suffered a nervous breakdown around midnight and I have since relieved him of command-keeping him here on advisory capacity only. This is Lt. Patlron-she was there when the Legacy fell. Again, she remains here in advisory capacity only…"

"NO!" James Gordon shouted in agony. "No, you CAN'T-"

* * *

**20: 36 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

From the darkness there came a horrible, hellish shout, and all on the grounds fell to their knees, cowering, hands pressed over ears. Harlene Quinzel looked up from the oily asphalt, blouse and white coat smeared with sticky strings of tar, briefcase clattering open wind whipping papers, files, notes, Rorshach blot cards floating winged wind whipped eerie overhead like a thousand shrieking hell-bound bats…

Blonde hair flying one hand blocking the blinding glare of whirring sirens a thousand emergency spotlights, her squinted, teary blue eyes uplifted she regarded the man on the rooftops, arms raised high to the heavens, head thrown back soul bared in that fierce and heinous cry. A living, breathing, gruesome gargoyle.

The Batman. Back.

…and even then she couldn't help but feel a stab of awe, unworthy in the presence of Angels and Demons.

* * *

**GCPD Tracking Room**

"Shut the FUCK UP, JIM!" Paltron shrieked, still curled around her aching abdomen. We all know he's a bastard and a traitor and a, a…complete…chickenshit-" Her words turned to choking coughs, more blood pouring from her nose and mouth. She played the ruse. Continued the lie, every word of it cutting deep, wounding her, pain yet resignation glinting maliciously in her eyes. Even trampled and bleeding she was the only one with enough balls or brains to know what he had done.

…she was a goddamned soldier. And he could-he would-always count on her.

"Am I under arrest?" Lawless asked as he was hauled roughly to his feet.

"Arrest?" The NSA agent spat, slick string of saliva sticking in the dust-stained stubble of the Acting Commissioner's face. "Fuck no, man. You ain't under arrest, you don't have the right to remain fucking silent…hell," He smiled sadistically, "you don't have any rights at all."

"This is city needs a hero, Gordon. Someone they can trust." The Detective said cryptically.

_I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be. You'll hunt me. Condemn me. Set the dogs on me. Because that's what needs to be done…_

"Remind me to tell you about the Batman," the (actual) Commissioner choked. The eyes of all officers were on him, and those whispered, wondering words hung heavy and pregnant in the smoke-filled air.

Then the door swung shut with finality, and this man, whoever he was, was led away, and former US Marine, MCU Lt. Guinevere Paltron buried her bloodied face in her shaking hands.

* * *

**20:58 EST**

**It's a Magical World Daycare Facility**

"Mommy-!" the curly headed carrot top was wrapped around her slim legs in an instant. The next, he was hauled up into her arms, and she sobbed as she held him, kissed away his tears…

He was three. Too young to know. To understand. Didn't know why Mrs. Bartlet had been crying this whole time, what all the smoke and sirens on the TV were for…

…no, he was crying. Her son was crying because she had broken a promise to him, the one promise she never intended to break, that Mommy would always come back for him, would always come for him he would never be left alone-

Broken promises. Amy Lawless held her son closer to her burgundy scrubs, tears dripping out her burning eyes. Broken promises. This one could be fixed with tears and a hug, with kisses and love and promises it would never happen again she would never leave him again…

But that smoke was still on the TV, those sirens were still whirring, that building still smoldering above the skyline, and her husband was out there. Broken promises.

She thanked the daycare provider. Carried her son to the car. Tried to strap him in the backseat against feeble protests and shrill whining. Iwannasitwthyoumommy please let me sit with you-

And to hell with it. It was unsafe. Stupid. There was an airbag. But she moved the booster to the passenger's side, drove home with her son's frightened eyes glued to her desperately, afraid lest she vanish again…

Armored cars. Soldiers. More military planes landing at the airport. Medevac choppers whirring overhead. And smoke, smoke like dust everywhere, making it hard to breathe. But they were home. Home. But the squad car wasn't sitting in the driveway, her husband was still missing, and she sat huddled in the nursery with her small son, with a baby growing inside her.

Her son slept. The night grew on. And just as her presence was enough to assuage Ian's fears, it would be her husband, her Aaron, that could hold her and fight away the growing doubt…

He said he would always be there for her. Yet in the moments she needed him most…he was always missing. Broken promises. She bowed her dark head. _God Aaron, _she whispered as sleep claimed her, _where are you?_

* * *

**21:15 EST**

**Gotham City International Airport**

Behind tinted, bullet proof glass, Lawless' face remained impassive. He blinked once, regarding the metal cuffs clamped tightly around his raw wrists, then turned his gaze out the blackened window, drinking in a last sight of the Screaming City.

_Remind me to tell you about the Batman,_ Gordon had said...

He was forcefully boarded onto the unmarked chopper, safety harness brought down heedlessly over his aching arm…

_Remind me to tell you about the Batman._ He looked out the window to Gotham City, where Commissioner James Gordon had been, was, and would be still willing to pay the personal price necessary to bring his public peace…

Remind me to tell you about the Batman…

He was in Homicide, not MCU. He hadn't been there the night the bastard blew the building. No, no he was home, had taken the day off had been relieved had been so fucking weak, thought Gordon was dead thought Garcia would resign thought life was pointless, thought the Joker'd won. But it was obvious, now, wasn't it? The Batman would do anything for his city, give anything to protect her…unless it meant the life of the woman he loved. That night, that night when the unthinkable happened, when the call came over the scanner while he was home getting drunk again even though he'd promised on the grave of a family of four that he'd never touch the stuff again…the Batman had gone after Dent. Dragged him from the flames. Saved him.

…but he'd been going after _Dawes, _Lawless now realized_._ Had both won and lost the fight. No one knew but Gordon and himself, yet for the Batman-like him-that knowing was enough. There was no such thing as a perfect hero. Ideas were only as strong as the men who upheld them and all men had a weakness, a breaking point. Something that could not be sacrificed even for a higher cause, for a greater good-

Warm brown eyes. Shy smile. Kid who'd never been shown what manhood was but tried his goddamned best to be one anyways…_I wish he'd been like you I wish my dad had been like you I wish you had been my dad…_

-Even him. Acting Commissioner Aaron Lawless, MD shuddered at what he had done, almost done, at what he had been willing to do…

_Remind me to tell you about the Batman_. Jim had said. "You just did." The Detective whispered.

* * *

**21: 35 **

**Wayne Penthouse**

_Rachel-!_

And with that thought came a cry and with that cry a fell blow with the strength of Samson that would have struck down a thousand enemies…

…and yet all it accomplished was a bleeding fist, broken fingers and a hole punched straight through three inches of plaster. Cursing, Bruce ripped the fist back through that buckling hole, sneezing with the dust, and staggering to the kitchen for ice for the rapidly swelling fist.

Rachel, he thought again as the soothing coolness hit his bare skin. Rachel…

But he couldn't afford to be so self-centered. So stricken by his own grief he couldn't feel that of others. He hadn't killed the Joker. For whatever reason he hadn't done it he could not change it now. He needed that self-same courage, that greatness of spirit…because this war, yes, war, would only get worse before it got better-

Rachel. Now Alfred and Fox as well. He had always been alone, always too late, don't be afraid his father had whispered but goddamnit he was just a kid just a fucking kid who had just watched his parents brutally murdered…

Now he was a man. But he was late. Too late. It would always be too late to save them, to save Rachel…And Alfred, Alfred he had to trust to the care of nurses and physicians who knew more about cardiac problems than he did. But he could pay for his care. Pay to bring more doctors and nurses in from across the country if only the terrorist threat wasn't elevated to RED and all non-military flights grounded. But for the time being he'd see that the cooking staff got raises. Nice raises. And lots of time off with their families…

…and Fox. Yes. He had to do something about Lucius…about Lucius and Gordon and all those other innocents his company had unwittingly compromised…

Rachel, he allowed himself to say one last time, then released that guilt that hollow grief to that consuming spirit, his own losses seemingly small and insignificant in comparison. And yes, yes here was the rage the anger the righteous fury that allowed him to maim but not kill, to exact justice not vengeance, to reach out and save the life of a man he had every reason every excuse every desire to see die…

Rachel believed in what you stood for. In what we still stand for.

…and he was surprised how much of that spirit was Alfred.

He opened bloodshot eyes. And billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne and the Batman walked as one to the vault, disarmed the locks, and entered. Inside was a phone. A special phone. A secure phone.

...A TAPDANCE-encrypted phone.

* * *

**21: 41 EST**

**Camp David**

"Mr. President? I hate to wake you, but it's urgent." USSS agent Blake said gently.

Calderon sat up groggily in bed, taking the proffered phone, one hand still over the mouthpiece. "We've found the goddamn bastards?" He asked.

Blake shook his head wearily. "No, sir. I'm afraid. it's…_Mr. Wayne._"

* * *

**Wayne Penthouse**

"Mr. Wayne, I'm holed up in Camp David under the eye of the world's most powerful watchdog force. I can't even take a piss without being surrounded by thirty Marines. The United States is in the worst internal crisis the world's seen since 9/11…what could possibly be more urgent?"

Not many in the world had direct access to this number. A select number of diplomats to a select number of 'high risk' countries, the British PM, the Israeli PM, the USSS agents in charge of FLOTUS…and one jackass civilian whose personal and business tax dollars alone kept the entire US military running. Wayne Enterprises was a gold mine, a proverbial gold mine, and more than one politician owed said company-and family-both gratitude, favors, and pardons.

…and Geraldo Calderon, sadly, was no exception.

The billionaire chuckled darkly, staring unblinkingly off the balcony of the Penthouse to the smoke and spot lights below, glaring and unnatural as cancer against the darkened horizon. Power had been shut down, and usually noisy air was still and silent. "Believe me, Geraldo, it's no prettier from where I'm standing."

"What do you want, Wayne?"

"A favor."

Silence from the other end. And it hurt, hurt deep inside to know it was the mask, not the masked man, that the President saw. Jesus Wayne, that silence said. Could you have picked a shittier time?

But the Batman had failed him tonight. Failed him for the first time. Tonight it was Bruce Wayne, not the vigilante, who would become a man of action.

* * *

**21: 43 **

**Above Gotham City**

They were floating. Floating effortlessly above Gotham in a suspended glass dome, the Sleepless City stretching out dark and eerie beneath them. Silent. Still. Serene. Except for smoke and spotlights like an alien eruption rising from downtown…

It was strangely and deathly…beautiful?

"Hey, Lawless!" a familiar voice cried over the whirr of the chopper's blades. Wearily the Detective turned his head. Bradley. Goddamned Eugene Bradley was a passenger on this ferry to Hell, too.

"Whatchoo in for, man?" The technician sniggered.

"Hey, Skywalker, shut the fuck up!" Came their captor's enraged shout.

Lawless smiled grimly. Eugene had a blackened eye, but technician's chipper spirit was no worse for wear. Yosef Haddad sat nervously beside him, a dark tricle of blood flowing slowly down his cheek, large drops of sweat giving him a sickly pallor in the half light. And that black gentleman…Fox? Was here too, as regal as a king, surveying the passing cityscape like a disinterested grandparent on his thirty-fifth tour of Disneyland.

Aaron's weary eyes narrowed shrewdly as Bradley leaned back in his seat, mumbling something about complimentary refreshments. And for a moment, perhaps a millisecond, the black man's austere gaze turned from the breathtaking view to meet his own…

…and goddamnit if he didn't _wink.

* * *

_

**Camp David**

A favor, indeed. It read more like a list of terrorist demands, POTUS mused, blinking bleary eyes in the darkness.

"NSA has currently in custody a certain Lucius Fox, WE employee, an acting Police Commissioner by the name of Aaron Lawless, and Fire Marshall Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad. They, and any other WE, GCPD or GCFD affiliates taken into custody for yesterday's events are to be immediately released and acquitted-"

"Mr. Wayne, if these men were arrested it was under the jurisdiction of the Patriot Act-"

"These men ARE patriots, you chicano asshole! I want their release and I want it effected immediately, you understand?"

And the next words, although screamed at 12,000 decibels, still managed to hit below the belt:

"Or all those aides and office staffers and reporters who have remained so generously SILENT on your AFFAIR with your campaign manager's WIFE will suddenly find themselves motivated to speak. And I'll personally ENSURE that in two year's time your opponent will win the election if I have to BUY every vote in this goddamned country and I won't give a damn if he's JosephfuckingSTALIN-! Do I make myself clear?"

Clear? Oh yes. Inescapably. "Yes, Mr. Wayne," Geraldo Calderon said emotionlessly, acquiescing to appeasement like no nation had since September 1st, 1939, wondering as he did so if it made him Poland, or the goddamn, impotent League of Nations…

"Oh, and Geraldo?" The billionaire's voice rang again.

His heart skipped a beat. "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Say hello to Rosalinda and the kids for me, will ya?" And the line went dead.

POTUS hung up the phone with a sigh, meeting the incredulous gaze of six USSS agents, and at least a dozen marines.

…_Liechtenstein_. he mused bitterly.

* * *

**21: 50 EST**

**The Narrows**

_On the road again, don't wanna be on the road again_…but it beat the hell out of an 8 by 10 padded cell with no windows, didn't it? But he was on the _run._ Not the _road._ No, no the _road_ led places. You decided where you went. Wanted to go. Point A. B. Pick a route…

No, he was running. He, _the Joker_, was running. And he didn't like it. Not One. Little. Bit. And better even yet he was Running. In. Circles. That's right. _Circles. _Guerrero the Gormless hadn't busted him out, and so he had to assume that his accomplice was now bawling his eyes out in some sort of GCPD interrogation room-assuming there were any GCPD left to interrogate-!

Passable. But still not enough for a…hmm…stand up comedy. But Guerrero or not, _sommmeone_ had thought to take out most of the bridges…it would appear the Gotham Government Moron Squad had finally managed to get something right.

…it was a _shame_, really. Now he'd have to kill even _more _cops. Not that he had an aversion to killing law enforcement officers. On the contrary. It's just he didn't want too much of a, uh, good thing to spoil his appetite.

The whirring ambulance approached the northeast bridge, a large billboard looming in the darkened evening sky: That Crybaby Cop. Or Pissing my Pants Policeman or whoever the Hell they said he was with those cliché words: _Stop the Violence._

Even in a woman's too small, sweaty jumpsuit, teeth grating from the ear-splitting noise of the siren, on the run and going in circles, the Joker had to let out a giggle. Stop the Violence. What a laugh.

* * *

**21: 55 EST**

**Wayne Southside Condominiums  
**

"How are you, babe?" Reporter Chris Holden sprang up instantly from the couch and the Legacy footage on the television as Natalie slipped through their apartment door.

The young woman tried to smile. Say something. Shrug. But all she did was sob.

**

* * *

****22:00 EST**

**Lawless Residence**

"Ames."

…Aaron-? She opened her eyes, squinted, struggled to focus in the shadowy twilight, scarcely daring to hope…for it looked, it sounded, it all felt like a dream…

"I love you." The spectre whispered hoarsely. "I love you. And I've been so fucking blind-" She sat up slowly, staring, enthralled…

"I needed you today." He said from the doorframe, running a hand through his hair. "I needed you then and I've needed you everyday and I need both of you, all three of you-"

Then she knew. He was here. Her husband-her Aaron!- was here. She tried to jump up, bolt from the bed, run to the safety and surety of his strong arms…

…but he wouldn't hold her. Looked down into her eyes…no, no he was staring past her, his hazel eyes blank and shell-shocked. "I understand now." He breathed. "Why they can believe he did it…why they believed he'd kill Dent…"

"Aaron, Aaron what are you talking about-" He was scaring her. Scaring the shit out her looked like some dead ghost marble commemorative statue looked weak and helpless deathly-white like the goddamned ghost of Christmas past…

"I gave up my city-hell, my country- for my family today. And I still don't know which was the higher cause. But Christ, I know those people-! Knew their families, Ames, knew their families and knew there'd be consequences, knew it and did it anyways and I'd, I'd, I'd do it again. God help me I'd do it again. Do it again and _damn_ the consequences, there's only so much you can ask of a man…"

"What are you saying-" But he wasn't talking to her, some scientific side said. He was talking to himself. Mumbling. Rambling. Perhaps hallucinating. So goddamned exhausted that his mind was shot to hell…

"I couldn't do it. It all worked out in the end but there was a moment…I didn't know…and I did it anyways, Ames. Don't you see? _I didn't know and I did I anyways!_ I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't let him die. Couldn't let them die, don't you see I had to find them I had to help him I would've given up Gordon I gave up his family I know his fucking family but he's just a Kid, Ames, he's just a Kid and I-"

"Aaron," she pleaded, "Aaron, what are you talking about? Gordon, Barb-?" But he mentioned Dent, Dent was dead had been dead for a year he was confused he was stressed it would be just like last year just like last year his depression all over again-

* * *

**22:15 EST**

**Gotham United Methodist**

"You look like hell." Bruce said as way of greeting.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I could say the same about you." Alfred Pennyworth returned. For a second Bruce's thin lips twitched in a smile, then that moment of dead calm was past, and his heart was racing, racing again like it had when he'd seen his mentorfatherfriend lying unconscious in that hospital bed-

"Thank God you're alive," Alfred suddenly choked. "I was worried, you know. Much more worried than I've ever been."

"You're the one with the damn heart attack," Bruce said, drawing up a chair. "Why the hell would you be worried for me?"

But Thomas and Martha Wayne's longest-standing servant, Butler, God-father to their only son and in many ways, surrogate parent as well, merely shook his white head.

"That bandit, in Bhurma…sir, he wasn't the only one. I have been to war, sir, or what was close to it, and I've seen horrors. Horrors that even you have never seen. Never contemplated. I was in Special Forces, and we went with the Red Cross into a camp to inoculate children against polio. We left. The next day, the next day we were radioed back in but it was too late. Far too late. We went back and the medics were dead, all dead….they had come and killed the medics, killed the medics and…and they had hacked off every arm, sir. Every inoculated arm. They'd chopped them off, just left them, sir, left them in a pile. Just a pile of little arms…and I remember…I, I cried-"

And tears were pouring down his own face as well. "And?" He asked after a long moment's pause, already guessing, already dreading the answer-

But the Butler's face was hardened. "And we followed them, sir. We didn't killed them...we massacred them. _All of them._ The wounded laid down their arms, they tried to surrender but we gunned them down. _All of them_. Was it war? Yes. Did they deserve it? Yes. Had we accepted their surrender, taken them to the local leaders would they have suffered a different fate? No. Probably worse. It was _justice,_ sir, _justice_, in every sense of the word."

_Criminals aren't complicated, Alfred. We just have to figure out what he's after_…He was blind. So blind. Thought he knew suffering and grief and horror but he'd been wrong-

From the hospital bed that man, that man who in so many ways had been a father to him spoke again: "There are many things you come to regret when you get my age, sir, and some things you still aren't sure of. But I can tell you this: justifiable or not, justice or not, there has not been a moment of my life that hasn't been dramatically altered by my actions that day. It is a far, far better thing to regret the things we have left undone, the acts we did not do, sir, than those we did."

…_Falcone says hi._ Those three words, three little words had changed his life, changed his world forever…

"She told you," Bruce finally whispered. "Rachel told you. You've known all along."

"Yes, sir." Alfred Pennyworth replied. "I have."

_All my life I've wanted to kill him…and now I can't._ And he hadn't. Yet deep inside he would have always remained a killer, a cold, heartless killer like that Scarecrow and the Joker, like Ra's al Ghul…were it not for her, for her harsh compassion for the strength of spirit it must have taken to strike an armed man twice her size…were it not for Rachel he would be one of them, one of those killers who plagued not just his city but the world. Cold. Unfeeling. Unmoved by pity or mercy or a true sense of justice…

It was _Rachel_. All Rachel. Yet Rachel Dawes was dead, and he had never thanked her. …Not even once.

* * *

**22: 17 EST**

**Lawless Residence  
**

"Aaron, Aaron, please! You're not making any sense you're, you're exhausted you're not thinking-!"

The Detective blinked, hazel eyes devoid of emotion, completely broken, yet completely sane. He looked straight into her swimming blue eyes. "He went after Dawes, Ames. The Batman. The night Harvey Dent was half-killed and, and he saved him….h-he was going after _Dawes."_

And with that name he began to weep, uncontrollably, unashamedly, collapsing on their son's tiny bed frame with his face in his shaking hands. Slowly she sat next to him, eyes wide, heartbroken, unsure, uncertain and afraid. She touched his arm with trembling fingers, and he fell gently into her and wept against her neck. Amy Lawless closed her eyes. Ran slender fingers through his short-cropped hair and pulled him close until her body too was wracked with his sobs: _God forgive me, please God forgive me…_

Her husband. Her Aaron. He was here. She was in his arms…but she would find no comfort there.

There was no rest. No peace…

Not for the wicked.

* * *

**22: 23 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

"Boss." They said reverently, robing him in familiar purple like some phonecian king. Some knelt in terror. Others in respect, that fascinating religious admiration that adored anarchy. For here indeed was their god. But it was, the Joker thought appreciatively, much, much better to rule in Hell than to serve in uh, Heaven. If you were gonna choose between two make believe worlds, ya might as well end up in the one that lets your exploit the worst of the your vices, gives you over to the lusts of the flesh than to have them changed outright for playing a...harp. So. Fucking. Bo-ring.

Some reached for him reverently, others cowered in fear. Still more ringed the dirty room, impassive, awaiting orders. Some came in worship, others in fear, others to satisfy their own darker urgings…he cared could be instilled through many, many means, each as hmmm..._creative_ as the next. His long fingers itched for the feel of a familiar blade…he was free. He wanted-he _needed_-to kill tonight. Kill as master, not with the necessity of a fleeing refuge-

"Boss." One of them whispered in the darkness. "What about the kid?"

What _Kid-?_

But buried and forgotten in the back of that ambulance was a transport gurney. There was something small, something human, breathing deeply and evenly under that pile of blankets. The Joker was momentarily curious. He could play with the mouse, yes, like a cat…but he wasn't going to play into these cocksucker's hands. Oh no. Not him. He was his own god. He took orders from no one.

He surveyed the limp form with cool detachment. He needed to kill. Needed it badly…but this was not the moment. This was not the victim. He would walk away, walk away as he had done with Crane. He needed no help. Wanted no help. Would accept none in this most dangerous and thrilling of games. "Leave him."

"Boss…" The man said, and the Joker turned, not so much angry but intrigued. What, he reasoned, could be so damned important that this fool would risk losing his life by crossing him-?

Wordlessly the thug tossed him the wallet, and something cold and metallic dropped heavily into his outstretched palm…

Oh. _Ohohohoho-!_ The Joker cackled in glee, malicious eyes sparkling in the dimness of the ambulance hold, a bronze GCPD star clutched greedily in one gloved fist. He turned to the stretcher, and that impish laugh turned to peals of sinister delight-he knew that face-! and now he was salivating in suspense of the slaughter.

Ya know, if there was a God…sometimes he really was hmm…_good_, after all.

* * *

**22: 35 EST**

**Gotham City**

Commissioner James Gordon held his wife and two children as they slept, all piled on the couch in one big heap. Barb's head had long since cut off the circulation to his left arm, and James Jr.'s bony elbow was digging into his ribs. BB's foot…well, he hoped it traveled no further south than it already was. But uncomfortable or not, he would not wake them. They were his. To have and to hold, and others had sacrificed so that they might be. Tonight…he would hold them.

* * *

Gwen Paltron turned off the lights and slipped into bed, rolling over and reaching a longing hand across the empty mattress, dreaming only of her Angel.

* * *

"_Who are you?"_

_"I'm a doctor. You can call me hmm…Dr. J. But the reeeal quesetion here is: who are uh, you?"

* * *

_

Darius Fox rushed to Gotham United Methodist with his wife Marissa and embraced the father he had not spoken to in years, while his twin daughters looked on, amazed. Nichelle and Mikeala had never seen their father-or their grandfather-cry. Yet cry they did.

…And laugh. And cry some more.

* * *

_"Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly."

* * *

_

Eugene Bradley went home and slept. From their shared Star Wars themed office Fred Milton called his mother at her retirement home in Florida, just to tell her he loved her, for once not giving a shit if his flat mate heard him or not.

Officer Crispus Allen spoke to his father, his mother, his wife and his children half a country away via webcam, falling asleep at his desk while his wife watched him fondly, reaching out her pale palm to turn off the screen.

* * *

_"I'm a, a...a police officer..."_

_"A police officer? A Gotham City Police Officer?"

* * *

_

Renee Montoya went to Elsa's house, and held her girlfriend close.

* * *

_"I n-need more, more morphine-"_

_"Morphine? You wanted morphine? Tsk, tsk, I asked you if you wanted something for the pain…you never said you wanted a pain killer!"

* * *

_

Reporter Chris Holden of News Channel 18's Good Morning Gotham called his high school sweetheart and ex-fiancé Cameron Shaw…who was too angry, too jealous, too consumed to pick up the phone. Instead she threw it across her bedroom with a cry and a curse, wishing the miserable bastard was dead…

* * *

_"You're not a doctor, you're insane!"_

_"I uh, I resent that."

* * *

_

Six year old Gracie Tanaka was re-labeled as 'stable', and transferred via city bus to Skylight hotel, staring up in the milk white, freckled face of her aunt Rebecca, while across town Sara McCloud asked to sleep in her parent's bed for the first time since that flu in second grade so many years ago…

* * *

_"You're. Not. God."

* * *

_

Alfred Pennyworth looked old and frail without his suit, tie, and spectacles. The hospital gown, telemetry and IV pump heightened the illusion of fragility. Yet the old gentleman's spirit-like his wit-was as strong as ever. Bruce Wayne sat the long night watches beside the hospital bed in a crowded ward, while the Batman roamed listlessly in the back of his mind, waiting for the chance to resurrect.

* * *

_"…You're uh, right, Johnnie-boy...Ya see, I'm the Devil." And the waiting the longing the anticipation burning desirelust he can't hold it in and he sighs laughs licks his lips in longdrawn release as he flicks that scalpel sickeningly sweet streams of frothing red blood stain skin crimson flow in reddening rivers around buried fingers gagging tongue choking choking the boy is choking he's scared fuckingsenseless knows he'sdying and every single squelching sound and piteous plea is like a symphony after a lifetime of deafness it's beautiful poetry song enough to make him laugh cry nearly come moves him to tears God it's so fucking beautiful-

* * *

_

…and in the Narrows, not far from Arkham Asylum, the man known only as the Joker laughed maniacally as the camcorder stopped, tongue lolling across bright red paint and bitter blood. He spat. Cursed the cop. Removed purple latex gloves with rehearsed flourish, turning to his adoring apostles with a wicked sneer. "That'ssss….all, folks." He hissed menacingly, and sent a vicious, vicious kick into the gaping wound under the boy's ribcage.

The body rolled limply, head turning. And Detective Jimmy Connolly lay still and silent on the floor, bright red blood pulsing from the ruined corners of his open mouth, his famous, boyish face marred beyond all recognition. "Well, so much for uh, Johnnie-here." The clown jeered lustily, then his visage grew cold and serious. He turned to his followers with ferocity to utter a final command:

"What are you waiting for, hmm? _Take out the trash."_

* * *

**24:00 EST, Wednesday, August 21st**

**Youtube. com**

**New post by Arewehavingfunyet (member since August 20th, 2030): Apocalypse, um…now.**

**Views**: 0...1. 2. Three. Four. Sixteen thirty-seven fifty-eightonehundred elevensixhundredtwenty-two or was it fourthousandfourhundredfifty-five no make that eightthousandsixhundred and sixty-six...

* * *

**Martyrdom does not end something. It is only a beginning.—Indira Ghandi.**


	25. Et Spiritus Sancti

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: (More like unabashed review soliciting…) I've lost a lot of readers recently and don't know if it's just crunch time for finals or if people are just getting bored with the story. But if you're one of those anonymous readers who've favorited this fic or have it on alert, drop and a line and let me know if you're still out there and what you think! Please?

* * *

**

**Friday, August 30****th**

**9:27 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

Cochran, Shane. Age 27. Westphal, Edward. Age 34. Jacobi, Joshua. Age 42. Gotham City EMS. Not soldiers, not warriors, not police officers. They dedicated their lives to making up where we've failed-where I've failed- saving the lives we've let be ruined by gang violence and drugs, turf wars and initiation rites**. **I'm MCU. Not Gang Task Force. So why this sudden sense of guilt, of complicity-?

_It's because the Joker isn't the only one who's left corpses out to rot, Bitch_. I think vehemently. _You remember the Narrows. You remember Ugly. He can't look much different now…_

Coolly Nora scans their photographs, matches facial structure with bone markers for age and race. Browline, nose ridge. Westphal is the first, his African features easily distinguishable. For the other two she'll need dental confirmation…

"And there's no point in waiting around here for that." Nora states, gesturing to the bodies with a look of disgust and relief. The thought of leaving this reek is appealing to us all-even her. And she works with dead bodies for a living. "I'll send a call to Gordon, get the bodies loaded and let CSI have their look." She signs the release forms with a shaky, still grease-smeared glove.

"And don't think for a minute I'm getting soft, Lawless." She chides motherly. "It's low blood sugar. I'm diabetic, remember?"

"I haven't eaten since yesterday." He offers. "And I wouldn't blame you, anyways." Yesterday? Yesterday I was asleep, healing, recooperating. Yesterday I was weak. And now I am behind, behind in important clues and news of the Joker's activities…

"What happened yesterday/" I ask.

"Found another Joker killing." Lawless replies. "Right here in the Narrows. Made this one here look friendly. The victims were bound and tortured, you know? Not to mention the heat and the sewage-"

_Sudden tension. Shriek of metal on metal. All eyes drawn, dreading, as shredding slivers of pipe metal go falling in a rusty-rain…_

"We're still trying to ID the bodies. Between the rats and the bacteria, it wasn't a pretty sight. Be glad you weren't there for it." He finishes soberly.

"Right here in the Narrows." I repeat, almost in a whisper. _No, Lawless,_ I say in the silence, _be glad _you _weren't there for it. _For a moment I am filled with both dread and relief. It's out. It's over. It's done. No more waiting, wondering, it's finally done…but now I know there isn't much time. Even in Gotham most murders can still be solved, and Lawless is the most shrewd detective I know. He doesn't suspect. Not yet. But he will. He might even be the first…

"I could've used you there, Paltron." He continues, not lightly. "It's the first time I've ever worked without you or the Ki-without someone else there." He amends. "Basement. Knee deep in shit. Poor lighting and four dead bodies…you get kinda crazy doing that alone, you know?"

Yeah, Lawless. I fucking know. Perhaps better than anyone. Strange things happen when you're alone. You hear things. See things. Let your mind play tricks. In those suggestive, sleepy moments between waking and dreams, in intense fear and stress…we're all more than a little mad. He loved Jimmy Connolly as much as I. Was his Mentor. Partner. Friend. And on his first case working alone, without me, without Angel…

Joshua Jacobi. Shane Cochran. Edward Westphal…all rotted, decaying, caked in maggots and slime. My nightmares from this morning now haunts my waking eyes, and I know what it is he must've seen down there.

I shudder.

* * *

**9:51 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

CSI sweeps the scene. Nora's grad students place Westphal, Jacobi and Cochran into black body-bags like temporary shrouds. "I want dentals done first thing!" Nora calls to their retreating backs. "Identifying Jacobi is our first priority!"

"What makes the difference?" I ask Lawless.

"Jewish." He grunts in reply. "Should've be buried by sundown on the day of his death-it's why they ask about religious background when you join the military, Paltron."

Oh, Hell, I knew that. Once. But that was a lifetime ago…

"So now they'll do everything they can to get him processed and to his family before tonight. " He finishes.

"Jews _and_ Muslims alike." Nora corrects him. "In suspected homicide, most Muslims are alright with it, but the Jewish don't permit autopsy unless it's for the purpose of saving another life-which can mean getting attorneys involved." She continues matter-of-factly. "But it's about getting them back to their families and loved ones, and if that means pulling an occasional overnighter…well, you've got to have some way to impart your grad students with character, right? But to be honest, traditional _Hindus _can be the worst-at least from my experience. They don't believe in mutilating the body after death, either, and even working with a cultural liason it's still absolute hell. Bodies on the floor, heads facing north, making sure the damned lamp stays lit-"

"Shit." Lawless whistles. "I'd never even thought of that."

And neither have I, I realize as Nora explains how many times she's broken both fire and building code for the sake of mourning families, and her growing grasp of the Antyeshti. Cleansings. Prayers. Cremation and mourning…and in that moment I know that in being alone I have forgotten about Loved ones. Religion. Burials and ceremonies…I've left the dead to rot like the Joker, careless and cold. But we are all of us daughters and sons. Fathers, mothers, sisters, spouses…Ugly and his cronies have sat for seven days. Who knows how many more their corpses will lie, untended, unknown, unburied and un-mourned in Nora's office while their wondering families grieve…

I am a mother. A grieving mother, wanting to bury my only child. I will let no more suffer the way I have. It will not stop me from killing, but I will no longer abandon the bodies. I will give the dead and their families the respect they both deserve, I tell the corpses as the bags are zipped shut and hefted onto stretchers. Only while living will Gotham's criminals belong to me.

I have become Death. The Charon. Nora is Hades...and together we will relinquish them to their families, or whatever gods they serve.


	26. Vacio

**Vacio**

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

**AN: "Christ, Paltron, wouldn't it have been easier just to tell us?" Gordon asked in chapter five. Many readers have since agreed. Hopefully this chapter explains why Paltron would rather face prison than reveal Angel's secret.

* * *

**

**9:55 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

Bright light. Flash. Snap another picture. Take analysis of soiled floor. Scrub the ambulance down for fingerprints. Remove, bag the trash and hypodermics of those druggie kids. CSI busies themselves with the gritty task of re-piecing the cargo bay and ambulance exactly how they were, 10 days ago.

And finally, finally I ask Lawless. Where is he?

But Nora hasn't said anything yet. Has given nothing away. I am suddenly shy. Afraid. He'll ask her, he says. He'll find out where-

He stops. Can't continue. Presses my hand. Presses my hand and leaves me, pulls Nora from the gathered throng of reporters to ask her.

"I don't know yet, Lawless." Nora tells him before he can even begin to inquire. "We were only called in about the EMT's…and I would've told you." She remonstrates.

Nora says the place belongs to a Jewish realtor, Aramathea. They've spent all morning trying to contact him. Hasn't picked up his phone. They want keys. Permission. Cooperation in exploring the premises…

It's 23 storeys tall. And somewhere among it's hundreds of thousands of square feet, my Angel is waiting.

Fuck it. I'm going it. Not waiting for some upper-class banker to check his morning messages. Bodies were found on the premises, and that makes the whole damn place a crime scene. Art's Beretta. Three round burst to the rusted padlock. Nora screams. Lawless whirls, gun drawn. Reporters cry out, throw themselves to the ground, trample over each other in haste to get as fucking far away from the yellow tape as possible.

…CSI can thank me later.

"Paltron, what the hell." Lawless says softly as I tear away the chains barring the doors.

"You wanna wait another seven hours, fine." I state. " I'm not stopping you. But I'm going in."

"You're going in." He repeats. "Alone. With no flashlight. Hell, you don't know what else is in there-"

"No, I don't. But the fucking Joker's gone. Druggies don't scare me." And Angel's in here, I don't have to add. Lawless knows. He has not forgotten.

"But you can't just go charging in there by yourself!" Nora protests. "You're a _woman,_ for goodness sakes-!"

Lawless sighs. Turns to her. Runs fingers through his greying hair. "You're right, Nora." He says apologetically as she gives him a look of approval. "Call us when the owner gets in."

"Absolutely right. You-_Lawless_!" The coroner sputters, but he pays her no heed. He yanks a flashlight and a UV bulb from the nearest squint, and chambers a round in his sidearm. We're going in. Together. Our last mission will be finding Angel. With one strong lunge he kicks open the bay doors.

I can think of no better way to end our partnership.

* * *

**10:00 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

There. There inside the empty, abandoned hall, amidst crumbled concrete from the doorframe and an inch of greyish dust, a narrow swath of flooring has been tilled in parallel: wheel marks.

The air is still. Our breath bated. In that emptiness of dripping, echoing pipes, the whisper of Fear Toxin laced dust and dank, a single, lonely pair of footprints trails off into the darkness. This is where they brought him. This is where he died, where the last echoes of screams and laughter still mingle in the sinister silence. But the Joker is long gone. Why this pounding in my heart? Sudden sense of urgency, dread? Something deep, deep down in my gut makes me sweat and shiver in the humid morning heat. I turn my head, and in one glance tell Lawless feels it too. The way he carries his gun, the tension on the trigger, the hair raised on the back of his hand-

Sudden movement. Three shots. A squeal-

"Just rats, Lawless." The obliterated body is splattered against the wall in a smear of blood and chunks of fur.

Lawless swears. Wipes the sweat from his eyes. For some moments we simply stand, his shallow panting echoing eerily. "You alright?" .

"Yeah." He replies. "don't know why I'm so damn nervous. It's not like the goddamned Joker's here."

_But he was_, I say with my silence. _He was_.

"He left the rest just to rot." Lawless whispers lowly. "This bastard is so unpredictable, and it scares the shit out of me. He's never done this before. Never. Why no clues, no messages? No booby-traps?"

"He dressed Hanson in his suit-had to disguise himself, Lawless. Bought some seconds of distraction by dressing her in Arkham attire. He didn't want to kill them. None of them. He likes killing to send a message." But my words are much more calm than I feel. It takes a killer to know a killer, and the Joker's confession spills from my lips. I feel defiled. Dirty. I share in his guilt. "He's not proud of this. Doesn't mean anything to him. He wasn't in control. He did it quick and quiet because it was necessary, and he left the bodies where they were."

Lawless is silent for several seconds. Noisome water pours from the blown open pipe, sludgy with grit and rot. "It would tell us he was weak. Vulnerable. Not in control." He sighs. "He wouldn't want to publicize that. Not like-"

He stops. Raises the flashlight, and the thin, sickly beam traces out diffusely, lost in the ghostly darkness and fog of dust. Those tracks lead on, ever straight, unwavering. "Look at the footprints." Lawless whispers.

Uneven. Lilting. Whirring in complex circles and arcs…

This time he was in control. Planned and purposeful. He couldn't kill Conolly near the others, couldn't allow that weakness and mortality to taint the scene of the real crime…

When he led our son away like a lamb to the slaughter, the Joker was goddamned _dancing.

* * *

_

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

**10:45 EST  
**

Panted, shallow breathing. Muffled, heavy footfalls. Pipes drip. Metal groans. Tiny, pattering feet skitter off into the darkness. The world is a monotony of colorless shapes and meaningless forms, muting minds and emotion until nothing is left but grey, grey numbness in the dust-laden air. I have walked for forever, and the path seems no shorter, like Tantalus it stretches ever before us, ever back, and the further we reach the further the Joker's secrets elude us…

What does he plan? Was the video all? Or will there be more? Traps. Clues. Corpse mutilated even before the rats and flies…

This was his plan. Why so long. A walk. A wait. Minds numbed, senses screaming, screaming for light for sound for _something-!_ only to stumble upon his handiwork. Yes, Joker, you are a god. You construct a world and inhabit it with horrors which define its only meanings. But the world is not so small. Outside these walls, beyond these bricked-over windows Gotham yet lives. Breathes. This is no universe. No Hell. It's an empty, abandoned building that you've riddled with death.

…Nothing more. Nothing less.

I am reason. I am logic. Behind them I will hide. Shut out the grief and emptiness, this hollow, ghastly shriek of loss. But as the sweeping swath of Lawless' flashlight glimmers off the far wall I see it.

Twin, whitish doors. Splattered in dark, bloody handprints. _A camera moves drunkenly forward, purple hand outstretched, doors fling back-_Angel-!

Running, running I am running trip over debris in the dark Lawless calls my name shouts for me to stop shouts Damnit it Paltron, it's a trap-! he's right he's right but I cannot stop cannot turn back there is a door, a horrible door my Angel lies on the other side I have to know have to see to be sure a terrible, burning longing curiosity dread my hands outstretched reaching for those doors I am powerless to stop them-

_DVD's. Unlabeled disks scatter as I crawl backwards out of that tiny cell, arms around Angel I will never let him go. "I've got you." I whisper, hauling him up over my hip. "I've got you, Angel-"_

_He is whimpering. Weeping. Rubs his tear-streaming eyes and nose against my shoulder over and over and over again. I do not shush him. Don't dare lie to him. His safety and innocence are utterly defiled. I kiss him, kiss him and pull his pants back up to cover him as he clings to me desperately. I hold him, simply hold him, press him close to console him until he can cry no more. _

_Dark curls between my fingers. Smooth, salty skin beneath my lips. Warm weight of every breath against my body and all the heights, all the pleasures, all the ecstasies of ever making love are nothing, nothing, nothing compared to the beautiful boy held in my arms… I look in his dark eyes and promise never to leave him, promise no one will ever take him away. You're mine, Angel. You're mine. You always have been, always will be. _

_But an urgency is growing, ominous and pressing around us even as waves of content and wholeness wash away all the loneliness that there ever was. I am here. Angel is in my arms…yet beyond the closet door four men lay dead. Four heartless, child-molesting men. Garbage. Human cockroaches and pigs…We have to get out. Get away. No one can know, no one can ever know or they'll take him away-_

_Angel is sickly and pale. Hiccoughing and shaky. Salt runs in smears down his porcelain face. He cuddles closer as though understanding we have to go…_

_Sudden squelch._

_Blood. Soaked in the carpet. Splashed on the ceiling. Walls. Oozing beneath my feet. I have forgotten to cover Angel' eyes, and he sees it all. Everything I have ever done for the sake of loving him lies in hideous heaps of flesh on the floor. _

_The boy stares, stricken. And for all the expression in those fathomless dark eyes I see nothing but those rendered reflections. "Angel?" I ask him gently. "Angel?" I try to cover his face, turn him away, but something stays me. He needs to see. He needs to know. _

_I let him look. Long and terrible, it is seared into our eyes, our hearts, our souls. This is our secret. This is our love. His safety. This is what I have done. This is what I will do to anyone who ever harms you. Never again. Never again. They can't hurt you anymore…_

_Angel shudders and places his face against my neck. _

_The hallway is smeared with Gerald's blood. There are fingernails in the baseboards, scratches in the paint. I stagger to the kitchen, holding Angel against my chest. There has to be something. Gas stove or burners. Lighter or furnace…_

_I pass the door, that slatted door and puddle of urine where Angel witnessed his mother's death-Sudden pang. I press him closer. "They can't hurt you anymore." I promise. "Never again." But as the whispered words leave my mouth they taste a lie. Can they? What if Gerald were telling the truth? What if the real killer is still loose-? Could there be a fifth?_

"_There's nothing in there, baby. They can't hurt you. No one's gonna hurt you-" Then the panic hits. These men were molesting him. That cell, that tiny cell in the closet-! I can't burn the house down. Not until I know. "Baby are there more like you?" I ask him fiercely, force his face to mine. "More children like you, are there more, Angel!" _

_Those impossible lashes flit slowly shut. He is sorrow. He is silence. Whatever other sinister secrets Gerald was hiding are locked forever behind his lips. Too late, too late, too late, bitch. You've failed. He's won…_

"_Baby, baby please!" I beg him. "Are there more like you? Is there anybody else like you!" I search. Cry out. Fling open every closet door, hammer every wall. No cries. No whimpers. "Can you hear me! Is anyone there-?!"_

…_.Nothing. I am gasping, shaking. Press him tighter, fears assuaged. It was horrible. Unforgivable. Damnable…but not the worst I feared. They were molesting him, only him. And guilt washes over me that I could ever feel such relief. I stagger back against the slatted panels, slipping down to the tile floor in shame. _

_Stale, dusty urine soaks through the back of my pants. I clench my eyes, bury my face in my Angel's hair. Soothe. Shush. "I'm here, Angel. I'm right here…"_

_But Angel is rigid in my arms. Hot liquid seeps down my legs and the biting, acrid scent of piss permeates the air. That heavy horror again crushes my heart. I crawl into that pantry, one arm around Angel hands and knees slick with blood and urine. There is something here, something still here something wrong something scaring Angel something bad enough to scare the shit out of a little kid…_

_The wall. The wall behind the water heater. It sounds nearly like all the others…not dull and hollow hiding and empty space, simply muted. Cleverly disguised. I kick it, kick it and plaster falls with every blow chipping cracking I cover Angel's eyes close my own kick the fuck out of that wall as dust rises and chokes us. And finally, finally that wall is soft and relenting and I rip through three feet of insulation until my fists hit plywood and splinters tear under my nails. Another kick. Another blow-_

_A chunk of plywood falls slowly, thumps resounding and ominous onto the floor below._

_The fake wall was a soundproof doorway, and through the jagged hole of insulation and splintered wood a gaping pit yawns to reveal a cement staircase. Darkness. Echoed breath. Angel whimpers in my arms and clutches me tighter. He begs me not to go, not to slip down into that inky blackness that empty nothingness but I have to know, have to see, to be sure…_

_I call for more children. Only echoes. No one answers. No smell of chemicals. No noisome fumes. No hydrogen peroxide or ammonium nitrate. What else is it Gerald would go to such lengths to hide-?_

_My fumbling fingers trail down the wall, feet groping blindly down the stairs. Angel is coughing. Chirping. Choking. Solid ground. I hold him close, promise not to let him go…I grope down the wall, and find the cold, hard plastic of an electric switch. With an eerie hum, the room comes to life, __and after several shrinking seconds, my eyes adjust._

_Computer monitors. Bright blue stage walls. Booms hang from overhead. Cameras. Camcorders. Tripods, jibs and dollies. Cinematography equipment, professional cinematography equipment…_

_And lining the walls, lining the walls of this underground hell are racks upon racks of hung clothing and costumes. My heart begins to pound. Lingerie. All of it fetish and role play. Brassieres. Negligees. Lacy panties. Slutty sci-fi latex, flowing white togas, starchy Elizabethian gowns and silky kimonos. Endless rows of boots, silk slippers, torturous high heeled shoes. Impossible wigs. Cuffs, whips, ropes heinous cages and chains…_

…_Anguish._

_I am consumed by grief and rage. Numb even to the boy who buries his face between my breasts. I sm Isaiah, my eyes have been opened, and the hidden horrors of Gotham's rotting heart are laid bare. I burn with a zealous fire. I thought I knew Gotham. I was wrong. Gerald wasn't hiding a meth lab or explosives…this is something I never even knew to fear. _

_It's a studio. A porn studio. _

_We were wrong. Blinded. Naïve. Fettered by self-imposed standards of the boundaries of 'usual evil' we saw only what we wanted to see. There are some horrors the mind refuses to contemplate. Some evidences our brain turns to madness to deny. Some truths so self-evident we hope for falsehood instead. That woman with the green eyes wasn't Gerald's battered wife or girlfriend…she was those bastards' sex slave._

…_Like her son._

"_N-no," I moan. "No, no, n-no Angel, no…" _

_Angel's eyes leak hot tears of shame. "Angel," I sob. "Why'd you go? Why? Why'd you go back to him? After all he did to you, what he did to both of you oh Angel why-!" I rock him and weep, hold this child__ locked away underground in the darkness to be raped abused filmed and recorded fondled and dressed like doll like a toy nothing more than a sex toy a prop to make movies to sell to be watched again and again and again…_

_Gerald was a man. Gerald was his father. The only life he'd ever known. And no matter how gruesome the cost, how terrible the pain or shame, my Angel went crawling back to this twisted pervert for Love. Acceptance. Approval. Too innocent not to give his forgiveness. Too goddamned naïve to know any different. Cold, terrible feeling deep in my gut. Sudden ache in my breasts. Harleen Quinzel's words: 'That child needs to be institutionalized. Placed in full-time psychotherapy indefinitely. Perhaps even for the rest of his life."_

…_No. _

_No-!_

_I love you baby I love you I love you I fucking love you I'll be everything you need never let you go I'll raise you Angel love you Angel I'll protect you I'll keep you safe teach you right and wrong no one can know they can't know can't ever know you have to forget forget it all can never tell never tell they'll take you away lock you up lock you up for forever and ever…_

Doors. Darkness. I fall again into that Hellish pit that horrible dread gives way to desperate hope and longing even dead even dead I can kiss can caress him my Angel my child my only son-!

Lawless staggers in behind me gun draw and ready. The flashlight whips in dizzying arcs blue UV lamp spins as the room erupts into eerie blues and glowing whites blood blood there is so much blood…

Panted breath in the dark. Muted footsteps on bloodstained cement. My heart is aching, flesh crawling, hair raised on end. The darkness closes in, presses back against light and life, hot and heavy against unwelcome intruders. We shrink together and approach that wall. Here is the gurney. The bloodstained sheets. Here is his dried blood that drips forever in a sinister sneer…

The doors swing shut on shrieking hinges. It is a death knell to my heart. I was prepared for anything. Expected the worst of the Joker's twisted tricks…

…all but this.

Heartbeats cease, my body sways. Heedless I fall into Lawless' chest. Cry so fucking hard my eyes explode. Retch out my heart and entrails. Bury my face in tearsspitsnotblood and rip my throat ragged w_hat do want youbastardyoubastard what do want what do you want I want him backI needhimback just give him back you motherfucker IneedhimIneedhim give him back give him back oh God oh fuck oh Angelangelangel_-!

Night falls. Eternity passes. The sun freezes over. The Devil is laughing a Clown is laughing hope and happiness splinter into a myriad of shattered stars the universe unravels into clouds of chaos and doubt, an Angel shrieks, my soul is rent to nothingness and darkness covers the face of the waters.

* * *

**11: 13 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

I wake in Lawless' arms and wish he were Jon, wish it all away: Angel and Lawless and Gordon and Gotham. Wish I had died on the operating table in France, wish to God that grenade had killed me in Warizistan JobJob the book of Job better death better darkness better stillborn than to live, to live and know such searing pain…

"Where'd they take him." I choke. "W-why..."

"I don't know." Lawless answers honestly. "I just don't know."

I sniff. Wipe a string of snot and tears across Lawless' shirt. Shut my eyes in this darkness pierced only by the dying glow of a flickering flashlight and weep anew. I am the Madonna. The Magdelena. The tomb is empty. He is not here.

… yet even I am not foolish enough as to hope he may have risen.


	27. Solus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

**AN: Current date is eleven days past the Legacy's fall. The flashback containing Paltron and Jimmy Connolly takes place on August 19th, just hours before the parade and the fall of the Wayne Legacy Foundation building. Hope that helps!

* * *

**

**Friday, August 30th**

**4:03 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

It is hours later. Hours later and Nora has combed every corner of the abandoned building. I am numb with grief.

"You're sure." Lawless asks again. "You're sure."

"These goggles are chromatography, Lawless. They sense methane, let off by-" Nora stops. "We've done visual scans and specialized sweeps for gases let off by decomposing tissue. If there were any more human remains we would have seen them."

"He's not here." Lawless says, one large hand tightening on my left shoulder.

"No." I say numbly. "He's not."

Of course not. It was the only scenario we would never anticipate, the only cruelty we felt him incapable of. Crushed hopes and disappointed dreams, even nightmares, quell the spirit and break the heart. Better not to feel. Not to hope. The only way to stay sane, to find him and stop his regime…

…but to ignore our emotions is to deny humanity. Become something less. Become like him. Either way, we lose.

* * *

**4:11 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

There is a long smear of brownish dust, a path cut through the empty storage room now lit with Nora's lights.

"He was dragged," I whisper, wiping my eyes. From dust we were formed, to dust we return…

"Oh, hell." Nora says, rising stiffly from her knees. "Lawless, smell this." Wearily, achingly, he kneels down beside her, kneels in the trail of our son's dried blood.

"Ammonia." He states emotionlessly.

"What's it mean."

"It means it's ruined." Nora snaps, temper rising. "Means not a drop of this is any good. I can't get typing, can't get DNA-"

"Don't you fucking yell at her," Lawless whispers dangerously. He is breaking. Breaking and his quaking fist on my shoulder has grown painful and hot. "And what the fuck you need DNA for, Nora. You saw the fucking video-"

"Temper, Lawless." Nora says unabashedly, like a mother chastising a disrespectful child. "You're a good man. Good cop. I know Jim depends on you-both of you-and damn if I'm not fond of you but if you can't keep it together I'll have you taken off this case. You're too close to this one, Lawless." She says, gentler. "You're just too close."

"Don't, Lawless." I counter before he can protest. "It's what he'd want." Trembling in rage. Writhing with sorrow. The Joker meant for us to find this place…and the lack of any other form of trickery means he's already won. After the despair comes Bickering. Fighting. Disunity. That was all he was trying to accomplish.

"Yeah." He says, with little conviction. "Yeah. You're right. Yeah."

"Why don't you two go outside." Nora suggests. "Get out. Get some air. There's no need to be here. No reason to stay." Don't let it get to you, she tells us.

"Right." Lawless mutters, jaw set. "You're right. C'mon." He hauls me to my feet. "Let's go."

* * *

**4:23 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

Walking. Walking down the trail of tears. Aramathea hasn't had the electricity running here for years, and we walk again by the light of Lawless' flashlight. We are leaving the dark, dank interior, the Joker's Hell, for the reek and smoke of Gotham City. More bloodstains. More ammonia. "Why bother?" I ask Lawless hoarsely. "We saw the tape."

"And we have his prints and DNA from his last arrest." He responds, rising from the dust-covered ground once more. "It's all games to him, Paltron. Puzzles and games. We'll waste our time on wondering why, worry, get distracted. And when he hits again we'll be weaker for it."

Legacy. Dead children still buried in the streets. Closing schools, parents dying in a frenzy to reach their child. The Joker has Gotham by the balls, and there's only one way to stop him. "Someone has to stop him." I whisper in the dark. "Someone has to find him. Someone has to kill him."

"At least arrest him." Lawless says, voice tinged with doubt. "Get him off the streets and away from us." But he's a city cop. Tired of watching friends and families die, tired of handing criminals to the courts to be released or labeled mentally unstable and incapable of normal lives, not responsible for their crimes. He is tired of watching murderers go free and rich men get fatter from it.

"You really think that Clown belongs in prison, Lawless?" I ask him. Prison. Asylum. They both have the same flaw: people get out. Escape or let loose, people get out. Hell has no doorways. The dead do not come back to life.

"I dunno." He returns slowly. "It takes a certain sort of mind to do the things he does. Kill. Torture…Something's not right. And whether he choose to become that way or he was just like that…I don't think I'm the one to make that call. I'm…I'm not qualified to be judge and jury." He pauses. Confesses. "But damned if I don't want him dead."

Don't be weak, Lawless. I need you. "If a gun were in your hand and had the shot, would you pull the trigger?" I ask him lowly.

He stops. Blinks. Stares at me a long, long time. "Paltron…" He is uneasy. Wary. Whispers, "I hope I never have to make that decision."

"But would you?" I press again.

GCPD. We've all asked ourselves that question. Carmide Falcone, Salazar Meroni, Joe Chill…we've all talked about cases over beer or coffee, whispered things in dark corners of dark bars, entertained dark thoughts in dark places in our minds…every last one of us has said the words in our mind. Someone should find that motherfucker. Someone should kill him. And I'd shake his hand. Buy him a beer.

…and it is not so great a leap to wonder should we be the ones to do it.

_Press conference. Three years ago. "The GCPD will never ally themselves with a vigilante." Commissioner Loeb states. "We don't care about public opinion or popularity, the Batman will be brought to justice. He is a criminal, not a celebrity, not a hero. A criminal, and a menace. The only difference between the Batman and men like Carmide Falcone is that to our knowledge, the Batman has never killed anyone."_

But he did. Harvey Dent is dead, and the people have turned on him. Once I too admired the Batman…then he became a killer.

But it's not that he killed, it's _who_. The Joker should have been the one to die. Never should have been allowed to live. To escape. To kill Gotham's innocents…

…to take my son.

That's why locker room talk never goes anywhere, why good cops, good men are afraid to act, to cross that line. Fear that rage, fear that mistake, fear that one action a man may never take back. Believe in order to kill, one must become a killer.

Good men have families. Friends. Neighbors and peers. They fear to lose trust. Respect. Companionship. Freedom. Jobs. Wives and children…Why men like Jim Gordon can't fathom taking a life in vengeance. Why a man like Aaron Lawless could contemplate, even condone…but never kill.

"Justice or not, right or not…." Lawless chokes, his hazel eyes swimming with sadness and anger, fingers tinged with Angel's blood. "I'd like to think that, that yeah. Fuck yeah. But I don't know, Paltron. I…it'd seem too much like, like killing in cold blood and I, I just don't know."

_I hope I never have to make that decision_. _Don't worry, Lawless_, I promise him in the darkness. _You never will_.

* * *

**4:42 EST**

**Arimathea Apartments and Leasing**

Sunlight. It blinds my eyes. Sears my soul. There is warmth. Light. Life. Traffic grumbles on the distant street. A hot breeze wafts gasoline and garbage fumes. I blink. Squint. Black blots on my retinas. Let my eyes, let my heart adjust-

…_Jimmy Connolly is standing in the middle of the alleyway_.

I let out a gasp, a short cry. Angel-!

Angel is dead, my heart says numbly. It's a mirage, an illusion, the wavering heat shimmering off melted pavement, nothing more. I blink back tears, and my eyes adjust fully. He's gone.

But there is something there, something small and reddish, tattered and trampled in the middle of the filthy alley. For a horrible, shrinking second, I remember my dream and fear it's his head-

Frantic footsteps. Nausea. Dizziness and ice-cold doubt…

But no. It's a shoe. _His_ shoe. A goddamned red Chuck Taylor with white and black laces. I kneel. Kneel and weep. Here in the garbage-strewn alley, here in the scorching afternoon sunlight I have found my closure. I reach out a hand, reach out a hand and with trembling fingertips caress that dirt-stained canvas…

_Fast food grease. Pushcarts. Glaring August sun. It's finally August 19__th__, and Stop the Violence is underway. "Hey!" A freckle-faced girl shouts to us. "Wanna buy a balloon?"_

_I ignore her. Keep on walking. But Connolly stops. Asks her how much they cost. "A dollar." She says, smiling shyly up at him._

"_And what's it for?"_

"_It's for Stop the Violence, silly!" She giggles, rolling her eyes and gesturing all around giddily. She can't be more than seven or eight. _

"_Cheerleading fundraiser." A kindly woman interrupts. "Westside Elementary." _

"_I'm a Bulldog." The girl informs us, grubby, chubby fingers pounding the silk-screened mascot on her chest. 'We're the best!"_

"_Then you must have the best balloons." Connolly laughs. "We'll take two." White, taut helium balloons rising in the scorching summer air. The streets and skies are rife with them, clutched in or released from every child's hand. _

_Jimmy Connolly hands me one. I look into the little girl's sunburned face, her bright, expectant eyes, and reluctantly take it from his grasp. Our fingers brush. Cold, sick chill. I let it go, let it go and it soars up, graceful and weightless to the sky above, lost in a host of a million white balloons like fallen petals in an everlasting spring. I am sick. Numbed. It's something you do with a child. Something I never had the chance to do with mine. It should be Angel here, Angel here and not this strange girl, not Lawless' partner but Angel-_

_The balloons are lost into the searing glare of the sun, scarring my eyes like my soul. _

"_Hey, wait a minute," The kindly woman gapes. "Aren't you-?"_

"_What?" Connolly asks innocently._

"_Never mind." The middle-aged woman apologizes "I thought you looked like…never mind. Thank you!" The little girl waves goodbye to us, her pigtails bobbing frantically. I have to get away-_

_I walk faster. Push my way through crowded street. Crowded sidewalk. Connolly jogs to keep up. Calls out for me to stop-_

"_Fucking A!" I snarl, sprawling onto the hot pavement on my knees and wrists. Every parent in earshot looks affronted. I roll to my ass, and rip the goddamn shoes from my feet. About broke my fucking ankle coming over that curb._

_Connolly is sweating and panting, wipes beads of perspiration into his already salt-slicked hair. He offers a hand, but I ignore him. I stand, soles burning against the melted asphalt, shoes clenched in one fist. _

_The sun is hot overhead, high noon. Bodies press and whirl all around us, a drove of parents and children hemming towards Gotham City Plaza. It's hot. Humid. My skin is slick under the confines of the dress uniform, panty hose murderous. I'm overheated. Exhausted. Surrounded by a sea of mothers and their children, children I can never have, pressed into a crowd the target of god-knows-what and dressed up like a fucking Barbie._

_Too much sun. Too many emotions. I want to bawl my fucking eyes out in jealousy and grief. I don't feel safe. Don't feel secure. Know if something terrible were to happen I'd be powerless to avert it. Not here in this crowd. Not dressed like this. _

"_I've heard they're bad for your back." Lawless' partner offers timidly as we walk. "Not really great for long distances."_

_I'm irritated. Physically and emotionally drained. My adrenaline surges, heart aches. I'm cranky and bitchy and want to go home. Not great for walking long distances, my ass. If someone had been to work on time we might not have had to park two miles out, I seethe. _

"_Yeah." I finally grumble. "But at least they match." I glance pointedly down. He follows my gaze, confused._

_And there, peeking out from under his uniform pants, are the bright red canvas and white rubber soles of goddamned Converse sneakers. "My shoes!" He yelps. "They're on Mr. Lawless' desk!"_

"_I don't know what you want me to do about it." I snap. "You were four hours late. Unless you can fucking fly there's no going back for them now."_

"_I can't go to Stop the Violence in tennis shoes." He moans in disgust. "Great. Just great. First coffee, now this. My luck that little girl was a pickpocket…"_

_Burning feet. Tight, uncomfortable hose around my thighs and hips. Shredding slowly up my calves. Fuck it. "Tell you what, give me your shoes and you can wear these goddamn stilettos." I say, reaching up my skirt to yank the hose from my hips. It's sticky with sweat, ripped ragged with runs. _

_Fuck the sun. Fuck the heat. Fuck being a woman and fuck today. I have hop on one bare foot, skirt half hoisted up, and rip the damn things straight off. I might have lost my dignity and modesty, but damn if the first breeze against my bare skin doesn't feel delicious. _

"_Um…I think they'd be a bit, a bit, um, a bit…big?" He finishes lamely, absolutely horrified at my antics._

"_That was a _joke_, Connolly. Like the kind you laugh after."_

_He flushes pink as I wad the panty hose and shove it into an overflowing trash bin. "I knew that." But he's still staring-more like fucking gawking-at my exposed skin. I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms. He turns scarlet and mumbles something I can't quite hear. _

_It's the scars. It always is. Death and pain are so horribly captivating, so heinously curious. "What, you're not going to ask me?"_

"_Ask what?" I caught him staring, and his elfin face has gone ghastly pale._

"_Wanna know how I got these scars." I state as dryly as I would read the instructions from a tube of caulking. _

"_No." Connolly says, either unperturbed or oblivious to the Joker reference. His eyes are soft and sad. "I think if you wanted people to know, you would've told them already." _

_I blink, speechless._

"_You're not as naïve as you let on." I say after a long, long pause._

"_I get that a lot. 'Smarter than you look' and stuff. My da-Mr. Lawless says I'm a decent judge of character, I just don't know when to keep my mouth shut. I hardly ever get to sit an interrogation cause I always mess it up." Connolly shrugs. "He misses you, you know." He says suddenly. "I know he loves me but there's times I just know he misses you." _

_Jab the knife in. Twist. I feel it. Jimmy Connolly, you are cruel to be so kind. Let me alone in my misery. You are young. Innocent. Uncrippled. Don't waste your compassion on me. I don't know what to say to this young man who balances childlike along the crumbling curb in faded Converse sneakers and buys balloons from little girls and laughs when the sun comes out from behind a cloud. In that moment he reminds me of everything I've ever missed. I feel old. Tired. Sick and sore. Leave me alone, my aching heart whispers. Just leave me alone._

"Don't leave me," I beg him. "Come back…"

But my Angel is gone. I may go to him, but he will not return to me.

* * *

**4:50 EST**

**Aramathea Apartments and Leasing**

I sniff. Wipe my eyes and running nose. Grab the strap lying between my breasts, go to place Angel's shoe in the bag with that list of passwords and medications. But I am stopped.

"Paltron," Lawless says, heartbroken. "That shoe…that's evidence." GCPD property. Until the Joker is caught, case closed. It is public property…indefinitely.

I turn. Face him and stand. "You gonna take it from me?"

Slow, sad smile. He shakes his greying head, and touches that canvas as gently as he would Angel's sleeping face. "No." He admits. "I'm not."

And we are silent. Awkward. Man, woman and child. Pigeons fly overhead, a church bell tolls the hour. Still we stand, uncertain. Grieving. But finally, finally a siren wails in the distance, familiar and full of purpose. I open Connolly's GCPD gym bag, and place that filthy Converse inside gently, lovingly, the only piece of our son I have to bury. Lawless has his photos and a year full of memories. I have only this shoe.

"What are you going to do?" Lawless finally asks.

"What am I gonna do?" I ask unblinking. What has to be done. What Jim won't. What _you_ can't. No parents should have to bury their child. Not even in Gotham. I will find them. Anyone and everyone responsible. Anyone who may have profited. I will hunt them down, one by one…and I will kill them. Oh, Gomorrah, the reek of your sin and sacrilege rises heavy above you, an Angel's bones burnt on the altar.

"I just…need some fresh air." I lie. "A walk, you know. Just some time to be alone."

Hazel eyes squint in the afternoon sun. Silently, Lawless nods. Acquiescence? Understanding? Compassion? Which of the three I do not know, but that uncertainty will not deter me from my path. This is no faerie-story, no epic of there and back again. No crusade to conquer a Holy Land. It is an Ernestine. An embittered, bloody battle, a long and lonesome road to shadows and death.

…I don't go merely to avenge Gotham's dead. I go to join them.

Graffitied dumpster. Rotting garbage. At the end of the alley traffic rolls on, unchanging. And this is Gotham: Squalor and filth. Stench and brick. A never-ending, repeating pattern, a matrix of ingrained habit and subconscious decisions that drive life and meaning until both are smothered into this ordered chaos. Yet against it all stands Aaron Lawless. Manhood personified. He is strength, he is shelter. With him I may have been a woman. Had things been otherwise, time changed, life less cruel. But every choice, every step, every decision of every day alters the face of our existence, the ripples of consequences marring not the surface but very soul. We are but mortals, and know not which choices will prove catastrophic…

Lawless would save me, would seek to spare me pain, and in doing so we would destroy each other. So I would kiss him, kiss him once on his bearded cheek for all he could be, never has been, never will…

But no. I am a man. It is better this way. I hold his gaze, hold his gaze for an unblinking afternoon in the August sun to say my thanks. Aaron Lawless. MD. Detective. Partner. Soul mate. Friend. Father to my only son…

…_Goodbye._

"Don't go far." Lawless whispers. I promise not to. Perhaps he believes me, perhaps he doesn't. Perhaps we are both so blinded by inconsolable grief and rage that truth and lie no longer hold any distinction.

I begin to walk. That grey, colorless curtain falls with finality between us, every stumbling step stretches time further and further, already our paths are eternally sundered.

I am Gotham. There is no going back.


	28. Killing Cassandra

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: t_o obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: It's been a wild ride. This marks the end of…the beginning.**

**Paltron will strike out on her own. In the next set of interim chapters, 'post-Legacy' arcs will follow Commissioner Gordon, Detective Aaron Lawless, billionaire Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, FBI Deputy Director Dan Murray (OC), and consultant Edward Nashton along with other members of Gotham's public services as they begin to confront the loss of one of their own and the dangerously rising tide of violence in their city.**

**The question is posed: What wouldn't you do to stop the Joker?**

**The answer is given: How far is too far?**

**The debate…has only just begun.**

**Rating: This chapter is rated M for Joker-style violence and disturbing psychological themes. **

**For clarification: The events depicted in this chapter occurred on August 25th at TV 18 Studios. They were alluded to when Paltron was watching the news at Green Street Pharmacy in Deus Ex Machina, and again when she arrived at TV 18 in Ruinosus/Servatrix and met Aaron Lawless, Jim Gordon, Lucius Fox and Bruce Wayne.**

**

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The following video is taken from the GCPD file of John Doe #387, Alias The Joker.

The victim in the video has been positively identified as Christopher Holden by next of kin. Mr. Holden's remains were released to his family on August 27th, and interred in Southside Cemetery.

Seven others were wounded and treated at Methodist Hospital for gun shot wounds. Three remain in ICU under critical condition. Official IA reports note and the content of this video confirms SWAT acted using the believed necessary force. All members of the responding squad remain on psychological leave and are currently receiving counseling and psychiatric treatment from GCPD Mental Health Services.

**Note:** As this video contains disturbing psychological content and records the death of a recognizable public figure, no part has been deemed releasable to the public media.

**Additional Note**: Official copies have been sent to Dan Murray, FBI Director Gotham City Branch and Jeremiah Arkham, Doctor of Psychiatry and director of Arkham Asylum for review and analysis.

* * *

Colors are bright. Lines crisp. The camera faces the corner of a room, both adjoining walls monotonous blue screens. A ruddy man sits behind a desk emblazoned with the logo: TV 18.

"And next up, we will have a special guest interview." The man says genially, with practiced poise. The camera pans slowly and steadily to a second chair, where a large, middle aged, and slightly balding businessman smiles back nervously. "GCPSC Superintendent Reginald Baxter will be discussing how officials are seeking to deal with the loss of teaching personnel, and the future of the 2030 school year." An instrumental interlude begins to play, sounding somewhat like elevator music. The reporter swivels expertly to the B unit, and finishes the segment:

"I'm Chris Holden, and this is TV 18 wishing our watchers a 'Good Morning, Gotham'!"

Pause. There are several seconds of silence. The man's smile seems frozen upon his face. Suddenly he relaxes, stretches, and the speakers begin to pick up ambient noise.

"Thanks again, Mr. Baxter." Holden says, rising with one hand outstretched. "I know you've been extremely busy putting the school systems back together, and I appreciate your time."

Their hands meet, and clasp firmly. "You ask me, we should shut 'em down for the semester." Reginald Baxter says gloomily. "Perhaps the year. Going on like this has been tough. Tough on everybody. I know it's about sending a message to the kids, but what do you do when you're short of staff anyways, half your teaching staff just got murdered, missing, or hospitalized, and a 30 year veteran has a nervous breakdown in front of 35 six year olds? We're sending _mixed messages_ to these kids." He frowns, deep jowls appearing on his pudgy face. "And I don't like it. Not at all."

"Isn't it true you've got some satellite classes coming into the high schools?"

"Yeah. Yeah that's worked fairly well. But they're the ones I'm most worried about." Baxter admits lowly. "Child psychology be damned, it's the teens and preteens joining gangs. Attacking police, national guard…even joining those 'Joker-fan' groups on Facebook."

"_Joker_-_fan groups_?" Holden asks with alarm. "Why haven't I heard anything about those?"

"We're keeping it on the down low. GCPD, gang task force sort of stuff. We figure the less publicity, the less people'll know, and the less recruits these creeps are going to get."

"I don't like being kept in the dark, Mr. Baxter." The reporter scowls. " If this is important news Gotham deserves to know about it. _Parents_ deserve to know about it."

"Yeah, and kids deserve a good education, free from worries about gangs and drug related violence; good, nurturing homes with two-parent families and a justice system not dependent on the assistance of violent vigilantes." The shorter man shrugs. "But that doesn't mean I can always give it to 'em. Freedom of the press, meet reality. And let me tell you now, sometimes it sucks."

"Yeah." Holden agrees. "Balls."

The pudgy man cracks a genuine grin. "That's it, Mr. Holden, that's just it. But I don't see you using that turn of phrase during live broadcasts. FCC might have something to say about it."

"Roger that." Holden laughs. "There's coffee and Danishes in the break room, if you're interested." He glances down to his watch. "Beck's segment should last another five minutes, and there's commercials on top of that."

Footsteps. Chatter. The clunking of high heels.

"Another _great_ segment, Chris." A sardonic female voice comes from off camera. It is a barely concealed sneer.

"Thanks, Cam." The man replies, shoulders rigid. He turns slowly to face the set.

A blonde-haired woman enters the shot, stalking across the scene. She is slender but not overly short. She is perhaps in her mid-twenties, with immaculate hair that falls past her shoulders.

"You sent her. You sent _James_. Oh yeah, and on the nineteenth, you sent _Tanaka_!" Her right index finger jabs the air accusingly.

"Would you rather I sent you instead?" Holden asks, strain apparent in both his voice and expression. "Gotham lost a lot of people that day. Great people. _We_ lost a lot of great people-"

"This isn't about the people, this is about the stories! Resume builders! You give the good stories to everyone else! I've got a masters in communication and Trisha barely scraped a bachelors and you always sent her instead, you gave her a spot on Good Morning, Gotham, for God's sakes-"

"You think I wanted to send Trish?" Holden asks, hands thrown up in exasperation. "You don't think I regretted it then? That I don't regret it now? Do you have any idea how much of an asshole I felt sending her even though I knew her family'd be there and you were free? Stop the Violence was the best thing that's happened to Gotham since the Batman, and I had to have the star power to cover it. And Cam, you just don't cut it!"

"I don't cut it-? I'm the most qualified reporter on your fucking news channel! " The woman snaps.

"Academic credentials don't mean anything, Cam." Holden sighs. "Not to me. I needed someone with poise, intelligence and class-"

"-oh, that's rich, Chris. Real rich." She sneers.

"I don't know who you think you are, Cam. Actually, I do. You think you're an overworked, underappreciated intelligent woman with a right to bitch because her boyfriend left her." The reporter says coldly, crossing his arms. "You probably don't even think you've done anything wrong. But I'm going to tell you now I'm not the kind of whipped jackass loser that's fine with his fiancée cheating on him."

"I didn't do it because I was unhappy! I did it for the stories! Those were great stories, Chris! You'd have done anything for them-" She rushes passionately.

"You _were_ part of a great story, Cam. Ours. Don't you get that? But you're right…. I'd have done anything for those stories. Anything but betray you."

The woman's face contorts, eyes narrowing piggishly. "Bullshit. Does the name Natalie ring a bell?"

"If you don't want to appear so shallow, Cam, I'll share some advice: stop surrounding yourself by deeper people. Natalie's always been a better person than you." Holden says, running fingers tiredly through his thick hair. "I was just too committed to you to see it."

The reporter sighs and begins to walk.

"I wasn't _emotionally_ involved! Not once! You'd never even _known _if Trisha hadn't told you-!" She calls to his retreating back.

Chris Holden turns regretfully on the spot. "That's because Trisha Tanaka was ten times the woman you'll ever be, Cam." He states with finality.

"She was a Jap twat in trouble with the law!" Shaw shouts, her pretty face gone puffy and blotched. All ambient chatter in the speakers ceases, replaced by gasps of outrage and shock. "Just a pretty face with a decent enough rack to sell your goddamn show-"

"Cam, I didn't fire you when we broke up. I've kept you on, given you a job and I've been more than fair. But I've had it up to here, Cam. Up to here!" Chris Holden says, shaking in fury, ruddy face gone a deep, rich red. "You say what you want about _me_, about my shitty _studio_, you snap and bitch and moan to the interns all you want but you _do not ever insult_ Trisha Tanaka in front of me!"

SLAP! The strike is swift and snakelike. The sudden, smacking sound momentarily seems as though it must come from off camera. "See if make up can cover _that_, bastard. " The woman spits. "Consider that my resignation."

There is a stampede of footsteps. Shouts of shock and outrage as the reporter cringes and holds his bleeding face. "Chris-!" The man is instantly surrounded by a swarming crowd. Insults are thrown heatedly to the woman slowly growing smaller in the shot. They are not returned except in gesture-a middle finger jabbed crudely behind her head.

A rushed, garble of words as the gathered crowd seeks to share their opinions as one:

"_You should've fired that bitch ages ago-"_

"_Charge her with assault-"_

"_Just let me at her, let me at her I'll kick her ass-"_

"_-you believe she be talkin' bout Trisha like dat?"_

"It's alright, it's alright!" Holden finally responds, holding his hands up to signal everyone's attention. Over the next fifteen seconds the room goes begrudgingly silent in respect, but faces and posture show a deep-seated rage.

"How much time till we're on air?" Holden asks.

"Little over a minute." A timid intern squeaks.

"Okay…okay…someone tell Beck to stall it if she can. Bring me some ice and have make up come in here stat. And call security. Have Shaw escorted off the property."

The crowd immediately breaks up, and the next sixty-three seconds seem to happen in rapid fire, time-lapse photography. Ice is brought. The make-up crew rapidly surrounds the news anchor, applying cold compress and more foundation. Reginald Baxter saunters in, sipping a coffee and looking quite alarmed. He too is swept into the whirlwind, touched up, and all traces of crumbs and sugar icing are swept expertly off his grey suit jacket and pinstriped tie. The men are seated. Powdered. Glug a last swallow from hidden water bottles. Laugh. Shuffle notes-

"Mr. Holden…Mr. Holden security's not picking up-" that same squeaky voice peeps panicky from off camera.

Unconcerned. Mild intrigue. "What do you mean not picking up?'

"I –I mean there's radio silence-"

And in that moment of absolute, ordered calm, everything goes to hell. Screams. Pandemonium. The speakers blare painfully. Swarms of staff run for the emergency exit heedless and trampling J_ust stay calm just everybody stay calm!_ The dolly topples, swirls wildly under a rush of feet and legs, kicked and battered every direction the room is spinning spinning dark figures with white paint an anonymous army of shadowy clowns goes whirring by again and again there is chaos blue screens the lens is cracked trampling shoes falling faces cracking bone dizzying sickening vomitous spinning faster and faster a kaleidoscope of chaos and colors then slower, slower, slowing, stops...

The camera lurches and is righted, filled full to the brim and overflowing with a sinister, sickening smile. White paint. Red smears. Yellow teeth and noisome, infected gums. The scratched speakers erupt in chilling, high-pitched giggles. The camera sways drunkenly, held under arm.

More clowns trickle in the herd shrieks and stampedes away from the emergency exit surrounded, hemmed, pressed as uniformed men with guns enter the shot from all directions, every single face covered in grease paint and a sinister sneer.

Sudden, falling jolt. The camera is handed off again, lolling drunkenly. The Joker's face appears in the unsteady window in an eternal smile. "_Alriiiight_, everybody! Good Morning, Gotham! You have no idea how long I've wanted to uh, say that. As you all might have guessed, there's been a change of plans for today's show! You're all about to be participants in a little, uh, social experiment! So would everyone please, stay calm and take the tubes of pain-_t_? "

The clowns surge roughly forward, herding the civilians on to the set in a single file line. White tubes are shoved forcefully into every pair of shaking hands. Those that refuse or drop are beaten severely."Okay, yeah, great." The Joker comments happily, oblivious to the chaos still unfolding behind him. " And now, let's see, today's show…

Is there a Mr. Reginald Baxter in the uh…audience?"

"Step right up, step on up, don't be uh…don't be shy!" The Joker calls invitingly. "Reggie, come on down!" He continues to gesture grandly for nearly thirty seconds, changing his posturing and voice from inviting to quietly menacing.

"No one? Hmmm? No one named Mr. Reginald Baxter? _No one at all_?" The Clown stops, expression cold. He begins to pace, a bright, hallucinatory figure before the crowd of dark suits and dress pants. The drab people are trembling, looking away, avoiding his gaze. More than one falls shakily to the floor. This continues for nearly two minutes, the echoing footfalls punctuated only by soft sobs and moans.

But finally the Clown finds what he is looking for. The third civilian from the left. She is young. Short. Has studio makeup running in long smears down her pallid face. During this long ordeal, she has not once raised her eyes from the floor. The Clown stops. The girl stiffens.

Curiously he cocks his head, although pondering childishly what should happen next. The Joker leans forward until his nose nearly touches the top of her dark hair. He raises a gloved hand and lifts her chin roughly, forcing her to stare into his greedy yellow eyes. "You haven't seen uh, _Reggie_, have you, doll face?" He asks boredly, his free hand absently twirling a switchblade.

"_H-him_!" The little intern squeaks piteously, her trembling arm now raised and pointing to the right. "It's _h-him_!"

"Good girl." The Joker pats her cheek with a seductive purr. "You just had that uh, that _intelligent_ look about you. _Knew _I could count on you. It's why you go the job, see? I'm a good judge of character. You looked like the type of person who'd be smart enough to betray a stranger in order to save her skin…. After all, it's not like it's anyone you know, right?" The Joker titters and winks knowingly. Then, as abruptly as he grabbed her, he releases her and wheels to face the frightened crowd. The girl collapses, forgotten, on the ground.

"Okay, next question!" The Joker announces. "Is there a uh, Trisha Tanaka?"

There are ten seconds of sickening silence, broken only by the Clown's heady breathing. "Has anybody seen her?" He heckles the crowd, poking and prodding as though expecting to find her hidden amongst them. "Anybody seen Trisha? Real short. Dark hair. Slanty eyes. Nice tits…have you seen her? No? And not you, either? No? _No-oo_? But isn't this TV uh, 18?"

"Trisha Tanaka is dead." An authoritative voice rings. There is a sudden, sinister hush. It seems as though the speakers have malfunctioned. But then-

A ruddy man steps forward. Chris Holden. "But you already knew that, didn't you."

The Joker smiles lustily. "And behind door number three…" He breathes. "Mr. Holden, I presume." In slow, purposeful strides the Joker approaches the news anchor, hand outstretched mockingly. Christopher Holden stares down at the hand, then into that painted face with cool, controlled contempt. In the background, the transfiguring employees begin to sob.

"What. You're not…_scared_?" The Clown feigns surprise.

"Get off my set." Holden demands with the utmost dignity. "Get out of my studio."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Chrissy. Ya see, I've got a hmmm, _segment._ A segment to shoot. And you wouldn't want to get in the way of breaking news, now would you?"

"Don't take the paint." Holden ignores the Joker to address his co-workers calmly. "Whatever he does, whatever he promises, don't put it on."

"I'd uh, belay that little order if I were you." The Joker interjects. "Ya see folks, if you put the paint on, I'll uh, I'll promise _not _to hurt you."

"You're a murderer. Your promises mean nothing." The reporter returns. Beads of sweat have begun to form on his brow and upper lip, and his reddish skin has gone pale.

"No…you see, that's a mistake, folks. I'm a man of my word!" The Clown counters grandly.

"You're a liar."

"Am…_not_." The Joker hisses.

"Mike Engel is a friend of mine." Holden states curtly. "You promised not to hurt him or kill him if he cooperated…but you intended to. You dressed all of those civilians up to have them killed by the SWAT team. And if Batman hadn't stopped you, they'd all be dead. Along with the SWAT members, too. "The Joker licks his lips as though parched, drinking the man's words greedily. Even now the prospect is still salivating.

"That was your point, wasn't it? Getting them to kill themselves out of grief? Or at least destroy their lives. No, Mr. Whoever you are, if you want to make yourself a video, do it. But you'll do it without the help and support of me or this studio. We're not going to help you destroy Gotham." The reporter concludes. Behind him, men and women in suits apply streaks of greasy white paint with shaking hands.

"That's…too bad. " The Joker says in mock disappointment. "We could've used the uh, star power."

"You can threaten me, threaten my staff all you want. But if you want to broadcast anything you'll have to kill us. All of us. Just like you killed that cop. I knew him, too. He was good Kid. And yeah, you scared the shit out of a lot of people with that video, but it had some effects that someone like you could never anticipate." Holden continues, his very voice beginning to shake.

"Oh?" The Joker blinks owlishly. "Such as?"

"Now Gotham knows we don't have to kill you to win. We don't even have to catch you. It doesn't matter if we're killed or tortured, if we choose to eat each other…Connolly was right. You're _not_ God. And no matter how much chaos you throw at this city, no matter how much hell you unleash, if one person, just one, is still willing to stand up to you…you lose."

"That's uh…and interesting theory. But you see the problem with your little old theory is after awhile, there ain't going to be anyone…l_eft_." The clown smacks his lips appreciatively. "Uh, how many of the rest of you agree with Mr. Holden here about the whole dying thing? Remember, yearly reviews are coming up soon so tenure and raises might coun-_t_ on it…"

But the crowd behind them has disappeared into a bleak, Cheshire anonymity. The innocent and perpetrators have become indistinguishable. "Oh, no one?" The Joker jeers. "So very…_disappointing_."

The clown turns back to the perspiring reporter. "See?"

"There's still the Batman." Holden returns calmly.

"I know." The Clown replies, sensuously slicking grease and paint-sodden curls behind his left ear. "I know. Ya see, there's some very, very strange folks like…well, like you and Johnnie and the Bat who seem to uh, think that if you don't let me, I can't use you as a part of my…hmmm…greater plans. But you're wrong. So. Very. _Wrong_. You see, this is much, much more fun, don't you think? This little conversation here? I don't know about you but I'm terrible at improv. I'm more of a uh…situational sort of humor guy. So it's much better to have an ex-per-i-_enced_ conversationalist like _you _do the talking uh…for me."

There is a long, long pause. Chris Holden shuts his eyes once in defeat.

"I'm a great judge of character, Chrissy! You're so honest. Idealistic. Just like our friend Johnnie! I'll at least give you that. Ya see, I could've gone for the _biiig_ networks. Some big names. I even considered CNN! But I _didn't-tuh._" The Clown enunciates, hefting a heavy, blunt blade from his innumerable pockets. "I choose _this_ studio. Ya see, Chrissy, I choose…_you_. Just watching your show I could tell you were the type of misguided do-gooder who'd rather die than live the rest of his life knowing he's a ball-less coward. And I admire that, Chrissy. I really do."'

"So it didn't matter what I did." Holden states bluntly. "You were going to kill me anyways."

"Uh… yeah." The Joker confesses candidly. " Pretty much. Any um, _more _last words?" The Clown says, twirling the meat cleaver, it's long, rectangular blade near white in the sheen of the studio lights.

Chris Holden blinks. Trembles. Opens his mouth. "Natalie, I lov-"

There is a sickening THWACK and a crunch of bone as something dark and red goes dripping down the lens. The speakers blare with cries and yells, sobs _youbastardyoubastardChris, Chris ohGodChris-!_ and the crackle of static from the overload. The handle is visible in a gaping pool of blood, shocking scarlet spurts in splaying arcs. The Joker smiles appreciatively, then rips the headset from the dying reporter's ears.

Pausing only briefly for dramatic effect, he turns purposefully towards the blood-splattered lens. "_Good Morning, Gothaaaamm!"_

He frowns, furrows and wrinkles appearing in those deep, pocked cheeks. One purple-gloved finger reaches and taps three times on the tiny microphone. "Is this uh, is this thing _on_-?"

* * *

**Final Note:** What follows is the death of GCPSC Superintendent Reginald Baxter, which was broadcasted on public television on August 25th to more than six million viewers. The FCC has made it illegal for networks to air any part of this publicized clip under pain of a $250,000 fine per second of film. As this footage has since re-appeared on other media outlets such as popular networking sites Facebook, MySpace and YouTube, FBI is working with those companies to remove clips and de-activate participating accounts.

Facebook groups _In__ Joker We Trust, Scars and Stripes Forever, Laugh Sinner the End is Nigh_ and _Why So Serious_ have been disbanded and their creators brought in for interrogation. Thirty members of these so-called Joker-fan groups are currently in federal custody for questioning, with over two hundred more under surveillance by FBI and homeland security joint task force teams.


	29. Paladin

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: This chapter rated M for attempted gang violence against women, offensive language and racism.**

**I know that historically Gotham City has been based on New York City, but to date all my big city experiences have been either in Chicago or Beijing (PRC). The Latin Kings are one of the largest street gangs in Chicago, deal extensively in drug trafficking and are most feared in the community for their brutality towards rival gangs and even against those who refuse gang affiliation. Correctional officers are frequently targeted in the prison system and on the street. **

**Disclaimer: I want to depict the reality of inner city life, and have tried both not to ignore social problems but not to glorify them either. I've done my best do bring issues to the forefront without going into social commentary. Hatred towards women in all its forms, domestic abuse, gangs, and racial relations are important issues in our society and need to be talked about if we're ever going to make headway on combating them. Any and all racial, religious, or sexual prejudices depicted by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and have no reflection on the author's personal beliefs.**

**Special thanks to AZ Woodbomb for some impromtu editing!**

**For Clarification: The flashback in this chapter is to an IA hearing for Jimmy Connolly and Paltron in light of the shooting of Miguel Ramirez in the MCU parking lot in March 2030. These events happened before Paltron realized that Jimmy and Angel were the same person. The summons to the hearing is also referenced in Gordon's flashback in Martyr. On another note, the fire at Sisters of Mercy was referenced by Maggie Kyle's flashback in Pandora's Box, and discussed by Sal Meroni and Jesus Guerrero at the end of Aurora.**

**

* * *

**

**Friday, August 30th**

**17:03 EST**

**The Narrows**

The afternoon sun is bright and hot. The bag is heavy on my shoulder, strap chaffing against my skin. It is 237 blocks to Sisters of Mercy Sanctuary-a square mile, secluded haven in the center of Gotham City. One of the oldest religious structures standing, the largest Catholic Convent in the US…and former site of Sisters of Mercy Foster Care that burned down seven years ago, taking the lives of 43 children and 7 sisters. There were only four survivors, Gotham's 'Angels of Mercy'. One dead in gang wars. One incarcerated in Arkham for triple homicide. One brutalized so viciously she fled to the security of the Church…and one, one Angel of Mercy who went into Gotham City Public Services…

Rosalinda Juarez, Achilles Dumas, Maggie Kyle, and Jimmy Connolly. I sniff. Wipe my nose and tearing eyes. My Angel lived. Lived when so many other children died….used that mercy and grace to make something of his life, to answer that question why was I left behind why the fuck was I left behind…

I know the truth now. Life it futile. Vanity and striving after wind. Better to die, better to be dead, better the one who has never existed, who has never seen, felt, tasted the tears of oppression and evil than one who lives to bear them both. If only we had died together when the Legacy fell, better I never carried him to the hospital as a dying child, better instead to have held him in my arms, loved and safe, trusting, comforted, content...

I sniff. Wipe my eyes. Touch that strap between my breasts, fingers pressed over my heart, over the bag with those medications, Stalton's list, that worn Converse sneaker and that scrap of paper with his tiny scrawl. Try to ignore that grief gnawing inside me, that burning sob stuck in my throat, will my eyes not to tear, not to see the pages of that open Bible, the book of Job...

I am Sydney Carton. Elizabeth Bennett. Tired and worn yet my feet compel me. I am a mother, this is what I do: I bury my son

* * *

**17:21 EST**

**Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge**

Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge. Yeah, right. Finch was a DA, not an engineer. If Gotham wanted to honor him they'd name a building or a scholarship after him. But no. They renamed a bridge, a century old bridge spanning the river where his body was dumped. That's gratitude, Gotham City style.

Traffic's picked up. The flow especially heavy given more than half the bridges are still up, even now, 11 days after the Legacy bombing. I make it half-way across before it hits me. That shrinking feeling in my throat. Sudden fatigue.

Goddamn this 9/11 syndrome. I reach for my bag, pull out Amy Lawless' old inhaler and take three steady puffs. _You should read the dosage, Bitch_. My mind tells me. _Don't overdo the steroids…_

Yeah, they can have nasty effects. But I'm a woman with nothing to live for, on her way to die. I just need to postpone it long enough to take the Joker down with me…

…and until then I'll take all the steroids and fucking narcotics this failing body needs.

But I've learned my lesson from Monday. I have to conserve my strength. My right leg is still sore and weak, manageable but the walk to Sisters of Mercy hasn't yet begun. And as much as I hate to admit it, as much as my mind screams for independence, I know I'd never make it. At least not without tearing the goddamn thing half open again.

Gotham City Public Transit. Buses. Subways. Even commuter trains coming in from an hour away in all directions. I'm at the corner of 61st and King Avenue, which means there's a station under the next block.

Gotham City Public Transit. I remember when Thomas Wayne bought them out and restored them, made cheap, clean travel free of charge for Gotham's citizens. I was a child then, just a little girl, so excited, thought the trains were completely new. My parents took me on a ride, a tour of the entire city, every stop and every station, just to see what St. Wayne had done now…

But they didn't last long. Like everything in Wayne's legacy, they fell apart after his death. Nearly four years ago Dawes was attacked, one of thousands of women harassed, mugged, raped or killed in these extensive catacombs. She reported the first sighting of the Batman not 3 stations up from here.

A woman. Alone. And a public service worker. She should've known better. But times have changed since then. Batman struck fear into the heart of Gotham's criminals, and Harvey Dent and James Gordon picked up where he left off. No one's stupid enough to pull anything during broad daylight. Not with an elevated terrorist threat level and National Guard on every street corner like it's fucking Beirut or Tehran…

…but if they are, I'm ready for them.

* * *

**17:36 EST**

**Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805**

It's loud, smelly and cramped. The plastic and fabric are scuffed and faded, lacking energy and life. The windows are smeared and dirty, and every pass of every underground light reveals a myriad of fingerprints and crude words written in oils, grease, and dust. The car rocks wildly, jolting, old and in need of repair. This is Gotham, what Gotham does. Takes the new and naïve, the hopeful and full of life and gradually, slowly, bit by bit wears them down until they are old and rusted, worn beyond recognition or repair.

There's a shrill, shrieking lurch as we grind to a halt. The quiet car more than half-empties, all these people hiding behind papers, laptops, magazines and ipods trickle wearily away, anonymous and already forgotten. Closing their eyes and ears lest the hear or see, closing their hearts lest they feel grief or pain or guilt. We've forgotten. Forgotten what it means to be human. Forgotten neighbors, friends, family. Isolated figures in an insulated world. Not naïve but uncaring, unconcerned, blissfully unaware. The cramped car held perhaps thirty people…and not a one of them could identify another had there been a crime.

Now it's me. Me and another woman gabbing animatedly on the phone, surrounded by her flock of kids, every one of them in solitude with separate headphones. The oldest can't be more than seven or eight. The front of the car is full of businessmen, five balding, grey-heads and ten younger men. Yuppies with expensive Italian shoes and designer suits. Thin face. Beaked nose. Widow's peak hairline. Short, squat neck and wide, plain features. Red hair, freckles, milk white skin…

Shit. Fuck. There. There by the doors. Two men, late teens, early twenties. Baggy sweatshirts, hoods covering their faces. Dark, olive skin, and long, chained crucifixes. I'm not one for racial profiling, but when you're a cop in the city that boasts the worst gang crimes in the world, you learn quick that idealism and political correctness only go so far. The playing field's a whole hell of a lot different than the books, and when you've got racially segregated gangs-when you've got bloodthirsty Puerto Rican _pandillas_-being of a certain age, gender, and ethnicity makes you suspect. Combine that knowledge with mannerisms... and these punks scream Latin Kings from a mile away.

The car heaves to another stop, screaming in the pains of labor. More exit. No one gets on. Only eight of us now, besides them. Nothing more than a handful…

"What ya listening to, kid?" The voice is thin and leering. Puerto Rican by accent. I sit up in my chair, adrenaline pounding. They've risen, begun to saunter down the aisles with a swagger like the own the place. If something were to happen…now is the time. One lone woman with her four young kids, a seemingly sleeping passenger in the back of the car and two old, sagging businessmen hardly represent a threat to the gang that's chased even Meroni's men off the street corners.

"You didn't answer my question, punk." Perp One snarls, ripping the ear buds off the head of the oldest child. It gets caught in the beads of her cornrows, and she yelps in pain.

"What you be doing?" Her mother cries in anger, voice carrying. The two businessmen try to look away, ignore the problem…

Jackasses.

"My man here asked a question." Perp Two says. He's shorter, less cocky. Along for the ride. Number one's the alpha, I decide. The puppeteer. "And didn't get no answer."

"That's rude, puta. Real rude. You best be doin' a better job raising these kids."

"Watch your mouth in front of my kids!" She snarls, white teeth gleaming. "Or I'll bitch-slap your ass into next week, hear?"

"Yeah? Yeah? And who's gonna watch your kids when you're in the hospital, bitch? Their daddies?" Number One growls.

"Ain't you know, _estupido_, black kids ain't got no daddies?" Two jibes. "They too busy off fucking each other-"

"You shut your mouth or I be shutting it for you!" She cries sternly. I'll give her credit-she's got more balls than those two businessmen, puffed up, head raised, looking down her nose even though they tower over her. But she's all talk. All talk and no action. She can't afford the hospital, can't afford a lawsuit, can't afford CPS to label her a danger or a threat to those kids…

…and she shouldn't have to.

My temper is rising. I can't stand aside. Can't watch her get roughed or raped. To intervene-? Or wait, wait and see just how ugly this is going to get…and how bad to punish them. I decide to stick it out. To wait and see…

Things get ugly. They never actually slap her but they rough her up good, back her into the corner of the seat until she starts to whimper about her kids…

"That's enough." A mild, bespectacled man with a bright, bright red face finally stammers. "You two boys leave her and her kids alone." The second steps forward, next to him, solidifying his stance. Two old men. Flabby and in their fifties at best. Even if they were willing to intervene physically, they'd never have a chance.

But these jerks only jeer. "Alright, 'mano. We're outnumbered here." Perp One says. "Think we'd better listen, huh? Listen to the saltines and their nigger bitch-"

"You watch your mouth!" The woman screams. "And get your punk asses away from my kids!"

"Don't talk to her like that!" The old man wheezes.

"Yeah?" One mocks. "Yeah, I might just do that. And I'm such a nice guy, I'll even give you some parenting tips for free." He reaches out, reaches out and snatches the ipods away from all four of the kids. "You best be doing a better job, bitch, else they gonna grow up like us!" He gloats, staring them down. They're huddling behind their mother, scared shitless. She's got her arms out, shielding them, dark eyes murderous. I am shaking in rage.

"And you two!" Number Two grins. "Wanna make a donation to the Latin Kings? Charitable cause? C'mon, hombres, your wallets."

It's not worth fighting over. Neither perp's said anything about being armed, but no one wants to find out. No one wants a gun or a knife stuck in their face, or any other bodily orifices, for that matter. Credit cards can be cancelled. Licenses reported lost or stolen. It's not worth standing up and fighting for a couple hundred bucks cash. They fork them begrudgingly over, along with a fairly nice Rolex. In the heat of the moment, in the excitement and thrill, I am invisible in my silence. No one notices the seemingly sleeping passenger in the back of the car. Anonymous. Hidden. Forgotten. If I were anyone else, they'd get away with it.

…too bad for them I'm a plainclothes cop. _Pretty shitty suerte, assholes_. I whisper.

"We'd ask you for your jewelry, bitch." One sneers, "but we know you ain't got any."

"'sides, it'd be stolen anyways." Two smirks. "Ain't worth the hassle of pawning it off and getting caught." He mutters something in Spanish about 'la policia', and you don't have to understand the language to catch the tone or meaning. One hoots in laughter.

The next stop can't come soon enough. That woman, those two men, bracing themselves as though for the worst. The shriek of the brakes, the jarring of the train, then all is still. The doors open with a long drawn pneumonic sigh of relief. The woman shepherds her kids out, dark eyes flashing in anger. She is farewelled by more insults, whistles, and a slap on the ass. She rounds on the businessmen the moment they've cleared the threshold.

"'_Leave her and her kids alone!_'" She screams, hefting the youngest onto her hip and pulling the others close with her wiry arms. "Thanks for nothing, motherfuckers. You ain't never wait that long if I weren't black! Never let nobody talk to no _white girl_ like that-!"

The doors slam shut. The train lurches forward. There is a momentary second of silence and serenity where her words echo eerily in the ar. Plunging back into the darkness, I can't but wonder that she's right.

* * *

**17:50 EST**

**Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805**

"Madre de Dios, would you look at that!" One catcalls, bemused. "Girl, you gotta be shitting me!" They exchange glances, laughing and shaking their heads as they saunter up the aisle towards me. "You gotta be fucking kidding me. You really gonna make it that _easy_, puta?" He asks, leaning over me, hot breath in my face. His clothes are saturated in the reek of marijuana smoke.

"You don't scare me." I tell him, blood gone icy. "Piss off." But I don't want them to leave. Walk away. I want them to stay, stay and fight. Stay and _die._ See if they're only jerks who steal from the helpless, or predators who devour them.

…but I have a gut feeling about these two. Woman's intuition, creep factor, a soldier and a veteran's instinct. Call it what you will, I've never been wrong before.

"Looks like we got a hero, 'mano." Two laughs. "Must've found the Batman! She says she ain't scared."

"Oh, you think you're brave, do you? Think you're real smart?" One asks. "You gonna pull the emergency brake? Hit the blue button? C'mon puta, what've you got? A can of mace? A nice little taser to fend off bad guys? Huh?"

"Something like that." I say cryptically. It's a _9 mm_, bastard. And five extra magazines tucked in Connolly's bag. But I'm not going to use it. Not on you. For you I've got two fists. Your face. Two knees. Your groin. Two feet. Your larynx, and then you're fucking dead_._

"What about this, yeah?" He grins, pulling a Glock field knife from his sagging pants pocket. "You ever seen one of these before? They sell these at 1-800-I'm a nosy, do-gooder bitch with a big mouth? Yeah?"

He lowers the blade, the tip tracing my throat. The cool, hard steel sends a sinister shudder through my flesh. Not yet, I tell that seething monster, not yet…

"Tell you what I'm going to do," One says with a leer. "I'm going to let you live. And I'm such a nice guy I'll even give you a little action for free, baby. How bout that? Take off your clothes." He snarls. "Now."

I look him in the eyes. He's Lusty. Brutish. Laughs at the idea of violence and rape. Too stupid, too absorbed to know the tables have turned and he's a dead man, a walking corpse…

"And what if I say no." I return evenly.

"Ho, man!" His companion whistles. "This one's got more cojones than you, 'mano."

Five point Corona tattoo. You don't have to be on Gang Task Force to know they're Latin Kings. And the teardrops on their faces mean they're serious. One here's killed before. Twice. And he's raped at least three times that number…

It's a shame the next stop is so close. I'll have to kill him quicker than I'd like.

"Who you think you are, bitch? You think you're super-cunt, don't you. Yeah. Then let's ask her a question. Let's ask super-cunt a question." He leans over me, twirling that knife expertly, letting the sheen of the blade show. It's sharp, long and deadly. Hello, beautiful, I say to her reflective surface, a pair of icy blue eyes staring back at me. She's as hungry as I am for blood. I tell her not to worry. She'll soon have her fill. "You ever been fucked by a knife, bitch?" He asks lowly. "Ever been fucked with one of these before?"

_You ever been fucked by a knife? No, Horny. I haven't. Have you?_ And I laugh. I laugh in his fucking face because I'm glad he asked. Because 13 years ago my cell mates at Memorial tried the exact same thing…

…and lost.

"Hey, man." His companion says, alarmed. "Man, that ain't right-"

"You shut the fuck up, you hear? You shut the fuck up! And you!" He turns back to me, "you take your pants off now, puta, or I'll just fuck you through them."

That monster in me is crouched, ready to spring, smells the blood of her prey and can't keep the hunger at bay. Lusts, longs, yearns to be sated…it's time.

"Go ahead." I dare the bastard from my seat. "Try."

He does.

* * *

**17:54 EST**

**Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805**

I grab his wrist, break his arm in three places before his mind can even register the pain. Blood shoots across the cabin, stains windows and seats, hot and salty it blinds his friend. But I'm not done. Not nearly done. I twist. Stand. He's falling, falling forward with all his weight and there's a sickening pop as the shoulder dislocates. One lets out a cry, and the knife falls from his twitching fingers.

There's a shout. Scrambling. Cry of _Madre de Dios-!_

He's sprawled on the floor, arm spurting blood, shaking with the pain of shock. The knife is cool and hard against my palm as I stand over him. His friend is running, running to the front of the compartment, trying to force the door-

"What's your name?" I ask. "Como te llamas?" You don't spend 13 years on the police force without learning the rudiments of Gotham's most popular non-English language.

But the bastard just spits in my face. It's stringy and warm, disgusting and phlegmatic. I wipe it calmly down my shirt…and press that knife into the bare bone sticking through his arm. He feels it.

"What's your name!" I demand as he screams like the coward he is. "_Como te llamas!_"

"Ricardo!" He finally pants.. "me llama…me llama Ricardo…"

"Alright, then, Ricardo. I've got a question for you: do you know what the penalty is for spitting at a police officer? Let alone _sexually assaulting_ one?"

"Policia?" Ricardo gasps, blinking rapidly, his dark eyes darting around the empty car. . "You're…policia?"

"Yeah, 'mano." I say. "I'm policia. And don't even try looking for your friend. He's gone. Se va. Desaparecido. So much for amistad, Ricardo. So much for la hermandad de la pandilla. It's just you and me now." I tell the sweat-soaked hispanic. "Just you, me, and this knife."

"But you're…you're policia…"He gasps. "You had a gun…you had a gun all that time-?"

Yeah. I had a gun. But it you're not worth wasting bullets over, bastard. "Yeah. I had a gun."

"But, but why-por que-"

"My turn to ask the questions," I remind him, prying that deadly blade out of his ulna, and wiping it clean against his pants.. "Besides, Ricky, you know how hard it is to fuck someone with a _gun_?"

I didn't think his eyes could go any wider. But they do.

"No." He pleads. "No-"

"I'll be honest with you." I say, without so much as a quiver in my voice. "I'm going to kill you. With this knife. And there's nothing you can do about that, Ricky. Nothing at all. There's only one thing left for me to decide, and that's do I let you die with your pathetic excuse for manhood or not." I hiss. "You're Latin Kings. You're a drug peddler. Killer. Rapist scum. Give me one reason, one good reason I shouldn't let you die like the girl you are-"

"I have friends, powerful friends, they find you," Good. At least I don't have to go out looking for them. Gotham City has many gutters, and one lone, rogue cop can't comb them all. Not a dying one. She wouldn't have the time.

"Please, please, _tengo dinero_, my wallet-"

"I don't want your _money,_ Ricky. And neither does Gotham. You've killed. You've raped. Those were her sons and daughters…and now Gotham wants your _blood_."

He's whimpering now. Whimpering like that woman he cornered in front of her kids. How does it feel, Ricky. How does it feel when the tables have turned? "One more question, Ricky. One more and we're done." I interrupt his inane pleadings. "You ever fuck a woman with a knife? With _this _knife?"

He shakes his head, shakes his head, beads of sweat rolling down his olive skin. "No, no I never-"

"Swear, Ricky boy. Swear to God. And you'd best be telling the truth. Because both He and this knife will know if you're lying.."

He's scared shitless. His English so garbled I can't tell what he's saying. But I don't have to. He's a coward. A pathetic coward who's killed with a gun but never a knife, who talks big and beats up women for thrills. He's scum. Garbage. A human cockroach, not even worthy of the honor of the gang signs tattooed into his neck and forearms.

…and I believe him.

* * *

**17:59 EST**

**Gotham City Public Transit, Car #1805**

Femoral arteries. He's nearly unconscious by the time the blade pierces through his second hamstring. He'll be dead before I finish wiping the prints off the hilt. I look up. Stand. No sight of his friend but both doors remain sealed. And there's bloodstains. Bloodstains from hurried handprints on the seats and rails. He came this way-

And there he is. Huddled on the floor between the last row and the wall. He doesn't plead. Doesn't scream. Just crosses himself, drops his blade between his feet, and waits. Good boy.

'What's your name?" I ask him.

"Hernán." He whispers, not able to look into my eyes. He's young. Much younger than I thought he was. Maybe it's just the fear. Maybe it's that he's small, small like my Angel. He looks too young to be a Killer-

But those tattoos don't lie. He's killed. Never raped but he's killed. Was he frightened, as frightened then as he is now? Forced to kill lest he be killed himself? Was it peer pressure, drugs, vengeance, an argument over a girl that led him to take a life? The protection of his family? He's young. So young. Not more than nineteen or twenty...

"_You are Jim Connolly?" Dr. Harleen Quinzel asks. We're sitting in front of IA. My eighth time. His first. I am cold. Uncaring. They've been after my badge since Loeb re-instated me, and I am no longer weak enough to be fooled by their childish, lying morality. These are the people that Harvey Dent once worked with. The people who inspect and review GCPD officers…and let scum like Wuertz and Flass walk with their badges. Beaurocracy is corruption, and nowhere in Gotham is safe from it's grasp._

"_Yeah-yes." The young man across from me amends. "I'm Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly." Under the table, his legs are bouncing. His skinny, boyish fingers toy with a bronze star laid on the stand._

"_He's nervous." I say to Lawless._

"_You're not?" He asks. It's not a rhetorical question. Every fatass beaurocrat in this room wants my badge, and they'll use any excuse to get it. Even discrediting a young officer, tossing him to psyche to ruin both of our careers…_

_I don't know Connolly. But he's Lawless' partner. A damn good Kid, Lawless once told me. And he's an officer. Comrade. Brother at arms. Damned if I'll let him go down because of me. _

"_Aren't you a little old to go by Jimmy?" Quintzel inquires kindly. The question game. Her favorite. I scowl darkly. _

"_I um, I don't know." The boy responds nervously. "Why?"_

_She throws him a sappy, sugary smile, meant to inspire confidence. It makes me want to hurl. "Well, given the choice to professionalize your name when you received your badge, you declined. I was just wondering if it was significant."_

"_It's his name, you twat." Lawless seethes. "Sorry, Paltron." He needn't bother apologizing. Three years in the military desensitized me to everything. I can curse and swear as well as any sailor, and I've heard worse. Said worse. I snort. "Don't bother."_

"_I don't know." Connolly answers in a very, very small voice. "It's just…my name."_

_Quinzel nods. Pursues her lips into an "O." Lowers her eyes and turns away, jotting notes on a black clipboard. Connolly looks alarmed. Lawless prepped him, prepped him for the stand, built up his defense…but Barbie here isn't asking about Miguel Ramirez. She's asking him about himself. Putting him on the spot. Performing a psyche evaluation while he's on the stand…and only when she's fed him to the sharks of second guessing and doubt will the committee begin their interrogation. _

"_Dr. Quinzel," Gordon interrupts wearily. "I as Commissioner fail to see the relevance of your line of questioning. We are here to discuss the events of March 2nd, and to allow the Board a review of both Detective Connolly and Paltron's actions. Can you explain yourself, or may the hearing proceed?"_

"_I believe the relevance will become self-explanatory, Commissioner." She counters expertly. "If I may proceed?" The grey, anonymous faces of the Board of Behavior and Corrections nod their approval. _

"_Jimmy, I want to ask you a few questions about your personal life. Where are your parents? I don't see them in the audience today."_

_Lawless mumbles something. I can't quite catch all of it, but it ends in Bitch. I smile. You picked the wrong fucking detective to mess with, I tell her silently. You're gonna be in parking tickets up to your ass when this hearing is over. _

"_My parents aren't here." Connolly says softly, dark eyes flickering to Lawless. "They're dead."_

"_Oh," Quinzel says with fake sympathy. "I'm so sorry to hear that." As if she didn't fucking know from his personnel file. "When did they pass away?"_

"_Thirteen years ago." _

"_Oh, my. You were so young. That must've been difficult. And where you taken in by relatives after their passing?"_

"_No." Connolly whispers. _

"_Then where did you go?" She prompts._

"_Foster care." _

"_A foster home? Or a facility?"_

"_I was placed at Sisters of Mercy." _

"_Sisters of Mercy _Convent_?" She specifies. " And you were how old when you left?"_

"_Fifteen."_

"_Fifteen…that would have been seven years ago, is that correct?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Then you were there the night of the fire?"_

_Connolly's voice is barely audible. "Yes." _

_And just as suddenly as she began, she stops. Changes directions. "Tell us about your parents. How did they die."_

_He blinks. "It…I was told it was a house fire."_

"_So tragic." She simpers. "And now tell me about your father. Was he a good man? Did he treat you and your mother well? He didn't ever beat you or her, did he?" Beside me, Lawless tenses. _

_Silence. "Jimmy?" She asks with that same insincerity. "Will you answer the question?"_

_And those eyes, those dark, expressive eyes go empty. Glaze. Jimmy Connolly is young. Naïve. And a terrible liar. "I don't remember." Shit. Fuck. Lawless and Nabokov. Chinatown…'he doesn't need to see this'…_

"_You don't remember? No?" She prompts. "Hmm…" That artificial sigh is like nails on a chalkboard. My heart is racing, adrenaline icing in my veins. I will not be complicit in this. Can't wait to take the stand. Can't wait to show this bullshitting bitch a taste of her own medicine-_

"_What about your girlfriend?" Quinzel asks. "Is she here today?"_

"_I don't have one."_

"_Sorry," She apologizes far too quickly. "I didn't catch that."_

"_I don't have a girlfriend."_

"_No?" Her pencilled eyebrows disappear into her hair. "What a surprise. You seem like such a nice boy. Why?"_

"_Why what?"_

"_Why don't you have a girlfriend?"_

"_I just don't, okay?"_

"_Jimmy, I understand the police force is an equal opportunity employer." Quinzel counters expertly. "Unlike the military, they will directly inquire and hire openly homosexual-"_

"_I'm NOT gay." _

"_No one was implying that you were!" Quinzel chides, batting her eye lashes. "But you're awfully defensive, Jimmy. Would you consider yourself a homophobe?"_

"_No." He says forcefully._

"_But you are, in fact, a devout Catholic, aren't you?" She asks after rustling through her notes._

"_I read the Bible." Connolly admits slowly. "But I don't like what you're implying. Just because I believe in God doesn't make me a homophobe. And I don't think God hates anyone."_

"_No one's implying that, Jimmy." Lying bitch._

"_Then why are you asking me?" Good boy, Lawless whispers._

"_You don't like it when people ask you questions, do you, Jimmy." Quinzel states, dropping the warm facade. She's got a strong mind. A shrewd, calculating mess of gears and wheels that turns in her head. She's not always right, but she's insistent, Persuasive. Strong. This bitch chews up Arkham Inmates and eats their minds for dinner. Connolly is young. Naïve. Awkward and uncomfortable, nervous and worried. He doesn't stand a chance. "But it's my job to ask questions. To ask you questions. Just like it's your job to serve and protect-or was."_

"_Dr. Quinzel, Detective Connolly is an employee of the Gotham City branch of the Fraternal order of Police." Jim Gordon reminds her tiredly. "He is here for an investigation of his conduct on March 2nd, but has not been suspended of his duties in any way."_

"_My apologies, Commissioner." She simpers. "You said you 'just don't' have a girlfriend, Jimmy. But what does that mean?"_

"_It means I just don't."_

"_And why is that? Explain yourself."_

_Same reason you don't have husband, I snarl. Because you're too fucking busy labeling criminals insane and cops criminals to have time for a personal life, bitch. But Connolly is silent. Looks anywhere but her, eyes drawn again to Lawless. "It's a lot of responsibility." He finally mumbles._

"_Indeed. And have you ever had a girlfriend."_

"_I've been on a few dates." Connolly finally admits. "But I wouldn't call any of them my girlfriend."_

"_Let me clarify, Jimmy. Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a woman?"_

_Connolly's face goes from sickening white to scarlet in seconds. I blink in surprise. Lawless' partner, a fucking virgin-?_

"_I'll take that as a resounding no." I whisper to Lawless. Anywhere else there'd be laughter. Guffaws. Someone would slap his back, offer to buy him a round, set him up…but not here. Here it's just another objective, unbiased, unemotive line of questioning of endless facts that make a whole. And that dead-pan silence, that unwavering, unblinking solemnity in the face of absolute innocence sends chills down my spine. _

"_And yet phone records in the weeks before and after the incident indicate repeated calling between you and Detective Anna Ramirez. Are you saying to the court that these were not indicative of a sexual relationship?"_

"_Her mom was sick." The boy interjects hotly. "I brought her kids to the station so she could take them to school-"_

"_Were you aware, then, of problems with Detective Ramirez' marriage? Domestic Abuse? There were children involved, by federal law you are required to report suspicious circumstances to the proper authorities."_

"_I knew they were having trouble." He bleats. "But I didn't know he was hurting her-"_

"_You didn't know? And what would you have done if you did?"_

"_What?"_

"_You, Jimmy Connolly, on March 2__nd__, instigated a physical altercation with Miguel Ramirez in a GCPD parking lot that was recorded via security video-"_

"_He was hurting her." Lawless' partner objects hotly._

"_Yes, I see." Quinzel purrs. "But what-hypothetically-would you have done were Anna Ramirez to have confided this to you elsewhere?"_

"_I would've reported him."_

"_No, Jimmy." She chides, shaking her head, mother-like. "I don't think you would have. You see, on March 2__nd__, you never even drew your gun." _

_She plays the tape. Tiny, black and white figures a man and a woman blows to the face the woman is falling, falling back against the squad car arms upraised something dark a uniform a uniformed officer sprints across the parking lot intervenes steps between defends grabs hands wrists thrown off thrown to the ground springs up again punched in the stomach, groin, falls-_

_Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Pause. "__Not once." Quinzel emphasizes. "Not once. And Miguel disarmed you and pulled your personal issue firearm on Anna Ramirez. That's why you're here today. That's why Internal Affairs is investigating this event. But I'm here to help _you_. I'm not interested in protocol, Jimmy. I'm a doctor of psychology. I'm interested in why you did what you did. And I'm telling you, you're lying, Jimmy."_

_She replays the tape. The room is silent._

"_You didn't think, Jimmy. Not once. You didn't _act_, you _reacted_. You could have stopped him, stopped him from hurting her just like Detective Paltron but you didn't." Don't you dare don't you dare bring me into this, bitch. This is Connolly's case. Connolly's choice. Two good people can come to different conclusions with the same logic. He choose to shield Anna. I choose to blow the motherfucker to hell. One crisis. Two solutions. Equally valid._

"_See, if Anna Ramirez had told you she was being beaten, I think you would have killed him. You would have gotten violent. Without thinking. It would have been instinct, Jimmy. Protecting a friend. A woman. A mother. And who could blame you," She says softly. "No one would blame you."_

"_I'm not a killer." The boy says hotly. "And I'm not a product-!"_

"_Oh, so you're familiar with the term, are you? Interesting." Quinzel sneers as she paces. " And you're so defensive, too. Why? Why, Jimmy Connolly, do you care so much, so passionately, that you not be known as a product?"_

"_Because everyone has the right to choose." He whispers. "Because it's our choices, not our circumstances that define us for who we are."_

_Good Kid, Lawless called him. Damn good Kid. It's no fucking wonder Wayne Enterprises made him the poster child for Stop the Violence. _

"_No?" Quinzel asks, feigning surprise. "You were raised by women, Jimmy. Raised by your mother, who died when you were young. Your mother who-as you claim-you can't remember if she was beaten or not. Then you were raised by women in a convent who took her place and died. Just. Like. Her. They left you. Left you behind, all alone. A lot of children would have felt abandoned. Betrayed. They would have gotten angry. Hated women for the rest of their lives. Raped them. Abused them. But you didn't, Jimmy. You're unique._

_"You felt like you _failed,_ Jimmy. Thought instead of there being something wrong with the world there must be something wrong with you. Every moment of every day you were alone you felt it was _your fault_. That you _deserved_ it. That if you had been stranger or braver you could have saved them. You thought you should have protected them…but you were only a child, there was nothing you could do._

"_And then the only other woman you knew, your foster-sister, Maggie Ky-"_

"_Shut up." Connolly springs to his feet, wet face contorted. "You SHUT UP-!"_

_Maggie Kyle. Raped five years ago November. I was never in SVU but that doesn't mean I never saw the pictures. I've gone pale. Shaking. Didn't realize my fingernails were raking splinters out of the counter in front of me. I want to kill her. Kill Quinzel. Irrational, impulsive, reflexive. _

…_and now I know why._

_Harleen Quinzel, you're a _rapist_. You force people to face the worst against their will. You enjoy power. Power and control. Even now the bitch's piggish eyes are gloating and her breasts are rising and falling in a lusty pant. She enjoys this. Enjoys overpowering the powerful. Knows she'd never win a physical fight so she forces people to play on her terms. You're going down, Cunt. If things go down when I take the stand, I'll beat the shit out of you. Just for kicks. If I'm going to be fired-if Connolly and I are going to be fired-then I'll at least make sure we deserve it. And she's labeled me unstable so many times, there's not a thing they'll do to punish me. Aggression remediation. Counseling. Community Service. But I'd never see the inside of a cell, not even Arkham…_

"_You're avoiding the question, Jimmy! You're denying what you know to be true, deep down inside. Your mother was beaten. Abused. Your sister, too!"_

"_You shut up about my sister-!"_

"_All the women in your life were hurt, hurt so bad that you've avoided sexual contact because you were raised with that, raised with fear and guilt of not being able to help them, raised in a convent with such a twisted view of manhood you can't imagine sexual intimacy without guilt and self-incrimination-!"_

"_You don't even know Maggie Kyle! She's just a story to you-!"_

"_And when Anna Ramirez was attacked it was like being there again!" Leland cuts across him. " It was like being there but this time you were old enough, you were strong enough to stop it. You didn't think, you didn't rationalize, you simply responded, responded as anyone would given your circumstances-"_

"_That's not true." But it sounds like truth. Sounds like an infallible explanation, unadulterable reason. I hate psychology, but even my snide spirit is momentarily quelled. Is that all we are? All any one of us is? A bio-statistical product of our genes and environment-?_

"_You're wrong." He says in a quaking voice. "You think you know what it's like. You think you know me, but you don't. Yeah, you've seen pictures. You've read case files. Maybe counseled people under similar circumstances. But have you ever been there, Dr. Quinzel? You ever hold your sister's hand for three and a half weeks in ICU, praying for her to wake up and half hoping to God she never does? Do you know what it's like to see the sister you love wake up, finally wake up and be so terrified of men that you can't even touch her to comfort her, can't even go into her room to hold her hand just cause you're a guy? No. No, you don't. You're not a Man, so you can't possibly know what it means to fail." He chokes._

"_You don't know my mom or my sister. They're just stories to you. Facts. Figures. Not people. Has suffering affected me? Yes. Has it changed me? Yes. Does it influence my decisions? Every day." His voice breaks. "Every single day. But by those same standards if it didn't I'd be a sociopath to ignore it, and denying it would make me a liar. _

_"You can't make me both a product and a victim, Dr. Quinzel. It's contradictory. So decide which one it is and let's get this tribunal over cause I'm sick of this psychoanalysis, and I'm damned sure sick of _you_. "_

"_Detective Connolly!" The tribunal cuts in, affronted._

"_I'm on the stand today about Miguel and Anna Ramirez. I'm not up for review about my mother or Maggie Kyle!" Connolly challenges with an angry sob._

"_He's right." Jim Gordon finally attests. "Detective Connolly is only here for review of his actions on March 2__nd__, not his life story. Dr. Quinzel, the tribunal asks again that you stick with the matter at hand."_

"_Yes, Commissioner." She flushes. "I merely wished to demonstrate that Detective Connolly, as the victim of domestic abu-"_

"_Wrong again." Connolly corrects. "I believe the term our department uses is survivor. Not victim. Not product. Survivor. As department-appointed psychologist, you might want to stay current on counseling terminology and procedures."_

"_Detective Connolly, you will show respect for the Tribunal and it's appointed members!" The Tribunal shouts. Lawless fails to stifle a grin. Gordon heaves a sigh._

"_Perhaps the Tribunal should hire culturally competent psychologists and request them to stick to relevant topics." Connolly suggests shakily. "It was my dad who hit my mom, and an unidentified attacker who, who raped my sister. Not me. And I think talking about them here is irrelevant and highly offensive." His voice is much calmer than his body language suggests. He is ghastly, ghastly pale and his clenched fingers are shaking around that badge in grief and rage. Lawless bows his head._

"_Well!" Quinzel says hawkishly, loss of prestige and control discomfiting her. "As you're not a trained and court-appointed psychologist, I don't think you're quite qualified to decide what topics are irrelevant or not, are you, Jimmy?"_

"You're correct_, Dr. Quinzel," Gordon reminds her mildly. "Those decisions are made by the Head of the Review Board-the Police Commissioner- who believes this line or questioning and thought process have reached their full potential."_

"_Indeed." She sniffs. "Then perhaps as you have decided you no longer need my assistance you'd like to continue questioning the boy yourself, Commissioner." There is another long, audible sigh from Gordon's microphone as she takes an exaggeratedly pristine swallow of water. "By all means, Commissioner," Quinzel smiles with that same sugary insincerity. "Do continue."_

"_Detective Connolly, do you believe your upbringing affected your actions in any way on March 2__nd__?" Gordon asks wearily._

"_Yes." Connolly whispers, still toying with that badge. "But I think anyone's past always affects and influences their decisions. But that doesn't mean they can't make choices."_

"_Then perhaps you could elaborate on your thought process." That blonde bimbo butts in again. Arrogant bitch. She can't keep out of this, can't resist the last word…_

_But Connolly is a paladin. So small. Weak. Broken. But he stands up to her, and in that brokenness reveals a depth of faith and character that exposes every one of her faults and flaws, destroys her arguments with unwavering strength. And in that moment I hate him. Hate him for what he is: young. Innocent. Untainted, with no disillusions. The world is a harsh place, and though he knows it bitterly he has risen above. So young. So innocent. So….whole._

"_I saw Miguel. I saw Miguel hit Anna, and I had to protect her. Had to stop him. And I did-" His dark eyes bore into hers " 'what anyone-regardless of their circumstances-would do.' I stopped him. I _chose_ to stop him. I got between them. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Didn't want to kill him. I could've shot him but I didn't. I…I just wanted him to stop hurting her. I didn't want her to get h-hurt..._

_"So I got between them." Connolly pleads to Gordon with tears streaming down his pale face. "So he couldn't hurt Anna anymore. He could only hurt me. But he was just...he was, was stronger than I was, and I c-couldn't help her..."_

…_but mostly I hate him for what he is not. What he could almost be, almost is…but isn't. Jimmy Connolly, you are not my Angel. And every time I am disappointed it's though I must love him less and less…_

"_That's what I was thinking." His quavering voice interrupts my thoughts. "How I acted, Dr. Quinzel. How I acted. And for your information, I haven't had sex yet because I think premarital sex is wrong. So are we done now, or do you have any more insults for me, my family or my religion?"_

"_Detective Connolly, you will refrain from attacking the doctor!" The IA board snaps._

"_Yeah. Fine. Okay." The young man says bitterly, laying down the bronze star he hasn't ceased to fidget with the entire hearing. Begrudgingly, my heart goes out to him. "I took an oath. To Serve and _Protect. _And that's what I did._ _I _protected_ her. Protected Anna. Fire me if you want to, but you don't treat women like that." Jimmy Connolly whispers, as twin tears drip burning down his face from his red-rimmed eyes. "Regardless of, of your past or, or, whatever…You just don't treat women like that." _

Hernán has never raped. Never taken advantage of a woman…But he stood back. Stood back and jeered his companion on. He is young, yes, but his youth does not excuse him. "You have a mother, Hernán?" I finally ask.

"Si."

"What's her name?"

"Rosaria. You going to kill my mamá , too?"

"No." I say gently, flicking the safety off. "I'm going to promise that Rosaria will find you. She'll say prayers over you. Cry. Give you a decent burial. Remember you as the little boy you once were." Why these comforting words. Why find peace in promising him a better burial than he deserves?

Gentle pressure. Sudden jolt. Three round burst to the skull. It's merciful, quick, and over. He never felt a thing.

I ball my shirtsleeve around my palm. Kneel. Close those dark eyes. And as the subway glides to a pristine stop, I slide the cell phone from his pocket and dial 911. I step out onto the platform, the operator's voice audible only for a second.

The doors close. The tram rambles on. I climb the stairs to the sunlight above, dark clothes hiding the bloodstains and fury. Traffic thunders by. I board a city bus.

...There are sirens in the distance.

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**AN: For those of you wondering, yes, I finally saw The Brave One. Thanks to all of you who have recommended the film! But no, I don't think Paltron should look anything like Jodi Foster, wonderful actress though she is. **


	30. Angelos

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: Sorry for the long wait! I've been studying for a remedial exam whose outcome will dictate my future. I just took it Friday, and I'll know within a week if I'm going onto second year or not! Wish me luck! Oh, and if anyone wonders, angelos is the Greek word we get Angel from in both English and Spanish, but its literal translation means 'messenger'. I thought the double connotations were suiting for this chapter.**

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**20: 21 EST**

**Friday, August 30th**

**Ave Maria Boulevard**

It's getting dark. The sun disappeared half an hour ago, but long fingers of dusk still trail across the purple sky. The world is caught in twilight, those eerie hours between light and deep darkness where the good fear to tread the streets for the evil, and the evil for the good. So the empty streets glide slowly by, light pole after light pole, block after dirty block. More passengers get on. More get off. I cannot see them, their faces lost in a greyish fog of anonymity and complacency, content to live as shadows, shadows and dust…

_Gotham United Methodist. ER. The air conditioning hits and sends a cold breeze across sweaty skin. Goosebumps run down my arms and legs. I feel my breasts go taut. Pale, sickened people line the hallways, crying silently. After thirteen years on the job, that shudder going down my spine has nothing to do with the sudden cold. This one's going to be ugly. I feel it in my gut-_

"_It's a Zsasz." Nora's mild voice warns. "Be careful." Zsasz. I should've guessed it. Public place. Risky. Adrenaline rush. Quiet and quick. The bastard gets off on it. He wants his victims to be found, and as close to the time of death as possible. We interviewed the motherfucker in Arkham once before Fear Night. Said it was art, said it was a medium, said it was freedom of expression, religion, that given time he'd convert the blind and pitiful masses…_

_Jeremiah thought he was 'criminally insane with sociopathic tendencies' and should be locked up for 'his own safety and the safety of others.' I'm not a trained psychiatrist and I don't give a damn about the correct diagnosis. We should've put a bullet through his skull when he had the chance. At least he's not like those other monsters, I seethe silently as we stalk the sterile halls. The ones who play with their food before they eat it…_

_She holds out a gloved hand of caution, wrinkled face lined with worry. "Lawless, you might not want to-"_

"_Damnit, Nora, my wife works here!" He barks gruffly. "You're telling me some jackass walked in here and killed someone and now you don't want me to do my job-!"_

_We round the corner, and in an instant I know Nora to be right. "Fucking A." I snarl. She's young. Dark haired. Dressed to a T in hospital issued surgical scrubs. From the doorway, the victim could easily be Amy Lawless. But on closer inspection she's Latina. Bronze skin gone pale in death, desanguinated from the carotids, dark hair slicked lovingly behind her, burgundy scrubs hiding the bloodstains. Dark eyes open, she looks like she could still be alive…and that's the point. How close we are, the dead and living. How feeble, how fickle, how easily severed is our grasp on life. A silver stethoscope dangles between her buxom breasts, and the ipad with patient files is still clutched in her warm fingers. _

_From the door there's a wretch and a splatter. I don't need to turn my head to look to know Lawless just puked all over his shoes. _

"_You good?" I ask him._

"_Yeah," He pants, wiping sick from his beard. "I'm good."_

_One time in Pakistan this Marine took a shot. Straight to the gut. Rode him back to base, three hours in a convoy. Nothing we could do. He was brave. Didn't cry. Told me not to. Called me soldier. He didn't make it, and I bawled like a baby. Those are the ones that stick with you, I tell Lawless in the silence as we ride back to the station. The ones you take home. Lose sleep over. Make you wake up in the middle of the night and roll to the one you love to feel for breath from their nostrils, feel the soothing sound of a living heart beating in a rising ribcage…you'll get over it. You'll be fine. _

_Yeah. He says. Yeah. I'll be fine. We'll be fine. And he will be. He'll go home. Hold her close. Make love. He'll never forget it but the panic'll be gone in the morning. At least for him. I go home to an empty house, an empty bed, reach for the warmth and comfort of a man's body I haven't felt in years and wonder what the fuck I've done to ever deserve this. I toss and turn, try to sleep. Yearn for the peace and consolation of Angel's sleeping face, for the son I haven't seen in years and never will again…_

_Give me blunt force trauma. GSW. Slicer-dicer Ripper style action. I can take the blood and gore. Can stomach the smears of CSF and bloodied entrails. Anything but this. The calm, the normal, the peaceful and surreal. The fucking waste of life for no reason, no reason at all…These are the ones that stick behind your eyes when you close them, haunt your dreams and make you slick with sweat when you wake up to piss._

…_These, I whisper to Lawless miles away from the midnight barrenness of my empty bedroom, are the ones that make you wish to God you didn't sleep alone._

Zombies, Zsasz called them. The living dead. Better to release them, spare them pain, kinder to kill them than let them continue to exist. Bitter, broken and barren, only now do I finally understand him: death is a welcome rest to the weary. My heart beats slowly in my chest, struggling against the infection and exhaustion that threaten to overwhelm its final defense. The dead. I go to join them…

But not yet, I promise Angel's killer as the last sunrays fade into inky blackness. Not yet.

_Angel. I reach my fingers across the bedclothes to the sleeping boy's curls-_

Rubber. White rubber, red canvas and fraying white laces. It's just a shoe. Angel's shoe. I sit up. Open my eyes. Wince at the crick and strain in my neck and back, stretch and groan. This bus wasn't built for comfort, sitting, leaning, or standing.

I yawn. Blink. Fret with my aching limbs. Feel for my gun. My badge. My bag.

Dried blood is caked and crusted on Lawless' dark clothing. Some stains the strap between my breasts. I pick at it absently with my nails, eyes searching the deepening gloom for the distant horizon.

Wrought iron gates. Stone walls. Sisters of Mercy sprawls like a medieval castle across the suburban landscape, the third largest Catholic Convent in North America. But I'm not here for history or nostalgia. Not here for native groups demonstrations or protesting for gay rights. Not here to light a candle for Legacy victims…

…I'm here to bury my son.

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**20:47 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

Abandoned lot. Overgrown ruins. Sisters of Mercy Foster Care, now entombed under flowers of well-wishers, candles, vines of ivy and crumbling concrete. Of the 43 fatalities that night, only 15 remains were ever identified and returned to next of kin. The rest lay, scattered to ash, forever buried in the wreckage of the building that consumed them.

A forlorn stone Angel stands, forgotten and crumbling, a broken fountain, an empty cistern that holds no water. It casts a shadow from street and distant starlight, and I find myself standing in its wake. Light rain begins to fall. The drops are cool. Welcome to a weary body and aching joints. I stand, face upturned, let it run down my face in place of the tears I am now too empty to cry. That broken fountain begins to bubble and trickle as rain water ebbs down in eerie flows around a weathered copper plaque:

_This fountain is left forever broken in memorial to the families and homes that were forever sundered on March 1__st__, 2023, when Sisters of Mercy Foster Care was destroyed by fire. May they find peace. _

I bend. Move the ivy. Scrape away the dirt and grime, that bluish film of oxidized metal. And here, at last, are the words I have been looking for:

_But God has granted us a remnant. Let the light of their lives forever be testimony to His goodness and grace: Achilles Dumas, Rosario Juarez, Maggie Kyle, and Jimmy Connolly. _

…And Jimmy Connolly.

Suddenly I am sobbing. I have lost my only child my only son my Angel my beautiful baby boy nothing I have ever done in penance or faith has erased my sins, they are scarlet before me my hands bloodstained, bloodstained like that last night at Underworld bloodstained like the last night I stood here before this statue did penanceprayerrestitution begged forgiveness and mercy a second chance, promised _I'll be good I'll be a good person a good mother Angel I promise I'll do whatever it takes to find you-_

On my knees now. The right burns like fire but the pain is nothing, nothing compared to the choking guilt in my heart and throat, sorrow drowns me and I am suffocating-

Breathe. Cough. Choke. Gasp. Lips turn blue eyes go blank empty lungs draw another so I can sob again. This is the fourth time my child has been taken from me. I kiss that shoe, kiss and weep, sobbing like a fucking baby can't control the tears the bitterness the grief the sorrow the rage that consume me in this unending moment I am not vengeance, not fury nothing but a woman, a weak, pathetic woman kneeling in the mud before a ruined sculpture in the rain, clutching a shoe to her breast and keening.

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**21:03 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

The night is cold. A church bell rings. I sniff. Wipe slickened hair from my mud-stained face. The rain has ceased to fall. I am sprawled in a puddle before that broken statue, soaked sheer to the bone. Angel's shoe is still clutched in my shaking fist.

...It's time.

The ground is yielding, fingernails filled with rich, dark sod. It is earthy, loamy, so kind to me in my despair. The task is easy. It is nearly done. Gently I lay him down, kiss him one last time, eyes fill with ice and diamonds as dark clods cover him as though tucking him in, one last time. I turn away.

I am a mother. My task is done.

I sniff. Wipe my tears. Gaze out over the empty ruins and wonder what our life would be like, think of report cards and soccer trophies I will never get to hang, of birthday cards and Christmas presents, the fear of getting his license, the loneliness of his first girlfriend, the elation of the college acceptance letter he was too nervous to open and placed it into my trembling hands instead. Wonder why he was given to me as Isaac only to be slaughtered. Wonder why there could be no ram for me to find in the thicket, why I could not have died in his stead, why it is the innocent must die for the guilty when we are the ones who deserve true suffering. I look to the sky, to the hidden stars above the dome of pollution and light, wonder if there is a God, if He sees or cares at all…

…but mostly I wonder what two of Meroni's henchmen are doing entering Sisters of Mercy so late at night. The wind picks up, dries my tears. Above and Angel's grave, the Night has heard my weeping, and offers what condolences she may.


	31. Quid Est Veritas

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

AN: For clarification: Stan Shillings, Maggie Kyle's alleged rapist, was mentioned briefly in Thomas Payne's letter to the Gotham City Star in Pandora's Box. Achilles is an OC from the Sisters of Mercy subplot, and the foster brother to Jimmy Connolly and Maggie Kyle. His name should be pronounced in French Creole as "Asheel" (not "A-keel-ees" like the Greek hero). As for the introduction of other canon characters in this chapter, remember, I can't make everyone's version of a realistic Nolanverse personality out of the raw materials of the Batman comics. But I'd still love to hear good, constructive suggestions on how I might improve them!

**This chapter takes place between the events of Eris Unleashed and Lacrimosa, filling in the gap in the timeline between chapters 2 and 3.**

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**The following PANDEMONIUM Taskforce file contains an exert from _The_ S**_**houlders of Giants, **_**a collection of essays and brief biographies compiled and criticized by Detective Aaron Lawless (also by Lawless: **_**Rite or Wrong: Crimes of Passion and Public Opinion in the Twentieth Century **_**and **_**Americans and Race: the Inherent Injustice of Equality**_**.] This was used as psychological evidence during a PANDEMONIUM hearing concerning individual members of GCPD Homicide, and their continued abilities to enact their duties of Non-partiality and Upholding of the Law in a potential conflict of interest following the events of August 20****th****, 2030. **

**Back Cover:**

"Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies - or else? The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or else we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation."-Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was born and raised in Gotham City, perhaps now most infamous for the murder of Thomas Wayne. And I suppose it was this death that struck me so much, even then as a child, and fostered in me a desire to enter medicine. St. Wayne, as he was perhaps only half-jokingly nicknamed, had himself been a surgeon. But I was a child then, and I did and said many childish things. Now that I have become a man, I have put them away, too late. As a man I now know that it was the life of Thomas Wayne, and not his death, that deserves to be remembered and commemorated. And yes, perhaps the course of a good man's life may seemingly make his death all the much more regrettable, I believe Mr. Wayne would be not only embarrassed by the postmortem attentions given him by the media and state, but also disappointed. Good Men don't wish their deaths or lives to become sacred, merely their causes, in which all their own great deeds are but only a small part.

I wanted to write a book on this subject, but during the writing process I realized that most everything I wished to say had already been said, and by an authority far greater than my own. I attempted, therefore, to bring such authorities together where a reader might listen and judge for themselves through the struggles of a not-so-distant history rather than the pangs of experience that such words and lives as these of Thomas Wayne bear a message of heavy and staggering truth.

"Here is a history that will speak to you of the atrocities and horrors of Man, but also of his redemption. And such a book, I believe, can only be written convincingly by a man, regardless of his race or religion, who knows them both painfully and intimately." -Naveen Prashant, DVM, Honorary PhD Ethics and Religion from Gotham University

**Dedication:**

For my friend, Naveen, for introducing me to Gandhi. For my wife, Amy, for nonviolent protests putting up with my long hours and ridiculous hobbies. But mostly for my son, Ian, because the world you live in was built by all these men in Daddy's boring books.

**Foreword:**

For many, the question will be why do I care about what a bunch of dead men wrote? And for most, the answer will be simple: you don't. Replace this book on the shelf where you found it for now, but in several decades you may be forced by others to return and burn it.

For the rest, who recognized immediately that the question posed should have read why does _anyone _care about what a bunch of dead men wrote, the answer is no less simple, if not perhaps more difficult to bear: you must, because in the pages of history there have been, there yet are, and forever will be those who recognize truth and seek to use it or conceal it for their own purposes.

Quid est veritas? Truth is. Is perilous, is absolute, is exclusive, and thus is highly offensive. Truth is that slavery once existed in this country, and even after the martyrdom of Martin Luther King, Jr. some extremist groups still seek reparations that would again put a monetary cost on the human soul while others have fought, contradictorily, and have banned or abridged the works of Samuel Clemmens simply for portraying this dark chapter in our history in an accurate light. And the truth is that this is cause for fear, and grave concern.

Quid est veritas? Truth is books are first frowned upon, banned, then burned, along with the corpses of six million Jews laid to rest in mass graves in concentration camps across Europe all in the name of patriotism and the greater good-and quite legal, as the Nuremburg trials noted. Truth is neither fun, nor just, nor pretty, and is far easier and lighter of conscience to ignore it or let it conveniently be forgotten than it is to remember and regret and teach our young.

Quid est veritas? Truth is that we must always remember. We must always forgive, yes, but we must never forget, for to do so would be to nullify everything that Good Men have ever stood for.

And that is what this book is about: Good Men. Others may write about arbitrary time periods or the compiled histories of a people group or geographic location, and I will refrain from comment on the practicality of their work if they will refrain from academic treatise on mine. To me, it is the stories of these Good Men, from any and all locales and ethnicities, that makes the pursuit of history worthwhile. If not, it becomes simply a muddling medley of dates and place names often and easily confused. But here I digress.

It is my hope, as it is every historian's, that you will see not a collection of essays of or about great men but that the underlying story of their causes becomes clear. Because great and Good Men have spoken, and you can ignore their words but not their truths. Truth is coming, as it always has and always will, and we must be ready to face it and all of its ugliness, whether it occurs across the Atlantic, the Pacific, or in the sanctity and seeming privacy of our own silent hearts.

Seek the Truth. Study it well. And most importantly of all, use it if you are ever faced with a choice between what is right or what is easy. For only in acting on Truth do we disclose to the generation to come whether we have indeed learned anything from the Good Men who came before us. In closing, I must again defer to the wisdom and words of another more qualified than I to give this ruling: _The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy (RDMLKJ)._

_-Aaron Scott Lawless, 2029_

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**Friday, August 23****rd**** 2030**

**03:45 EST**

**1776 Lexington Lane**

_Do you think she's a coward the boy asks you sadly. Sometimes I do, he admits. I do and I just feel awful. You can't force someone to do something they don't want to, you tell him. There's a word for that, and it's rape, Kid. It's not like that he protests. He loves her, she's his sister-_

_But it doesn't have to be sexual. If you try to force someone to do something, to take away their choice, their free will, that's rape. Not in a physical sense, no. But the principle holds. If you take away Maggie's choice, her ability and free will to choose, you're no better than Stan Shillings. He says he's nothing like the man who hurt her. Swears he'll never hurt her. Loves her to much to let her do this-but you say no. No, if you really loved her you'd let her choose. And the car is silent, the rain pounds down. You look ahead, focus on the blurring road between cuts of the wipers and wonder if and what he'll answer, wonder if he even understands. So I'm supposed to let her choose, the boy says bitterly. Just like that. If I loved her I'd let her throw her life away? Live there forever? I know it's what she wants, it's what she thinks she wants, but how is it loving-how am I loving- to let her go on even if it makes her miserable?_

_The rain grows louder. Patters on the metal of the roof and echoes in the cab like the memory of the ocean's roar in a bone dry conch on an abandoned seashore. Especially if it makes her miserable, you finally answer. It's easy to love someone, easy to let people make the choices that make them happy. It's not until it involves hardship and suffering that you prove it. And he begins to weep. He's never been loved before, no one's ever loved him before and no one's ever been able to hurt him like you have. And no one hurts you like him. He's your son. Your child. You're his father, and damned if you can't stand for him to cry. But he has to. Has to know love. The hell he's ever going to emulate it if he's never seen it. Who the hell will teach him if not you._

_So you drive. He cries. Tells a story and your guts go cold and your heart starts to pound but you keep your eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. This is love, you say. Love to let him cry. Weep. Be wounded. You can't always protect him._

_She was so happy. She was so happy, the boy moans with longing. Says she had a good foster family, went to college, even had a boyfriend. He came to visit her once. Just once. He means in the hospital. When she was-when she was hurt-you finish for him. When she was hurt._

_When she was hurt. He repeats. He can't say the word. Can't say rape. It cuts too deeply. He's a man. Her brother. Should have protected her. Should have been there. Should have stopped it. But he wasn't and deep down inside he knows he's failed, emasculated, believes and doubts if he'd been there he'd been able to do a damn thing about it._

_But her boyfriend, Maggie's boyfriend, he said he never wanted to see her again. Said he didn't want to be with a girl who'd, who'd…_

_He never loved her. You finish for him. No, he says, no he didn't. So he stares out the window, watches the rain. Then he turns and faces you and asks his father if he thinks he's a coward._

_And you don't know what to say. And you don't want to hurt him. And you love him desperately like your own flesh and blood like salvation like baptism but you're a father you're his father and the sons you love you chasten. By his definition, yes you have to tell him. He acts like Maggie is the only family he has. And he hasn't failed her. Never failed her. Treats her like a brother, like a man should but he's ignoring something. He's running from something the same as her. She's been hurt like him, victimized, tossed in the garbage and trampled but that's not what makes him a coward. Not what makes him a failure. The words, they hurt you. Take a chunk of your soul as he listens and shudders because he looks to you for love acceptance respect and if he doesn't have that he has nothing, nothing at all…_

_You have another sibling, you say, and he whispers Achilles. Tells you that his foster brother killed three people._

_Yeah. Yeah he did, you admit, still eying the road, can't look to the passenger's seat, can't look in that rearview mirror can't stand to see him cry have to treat him like a man when your heart screams he's just a Kid just a boy he's your son-! But he's also your brother. And you're supposed to love him. when's the last time you went and talked to him?_

_But the boy is silent. Perhaps he ignores you. Perhaps he cannot speak. _

_A still, small voice. I used to write him. Every week. He never answered. Not once. You ask him if he's ever visited. He tells you his brother is a murderer. Yeah, you tell him, and so's anyone who claims to love God and hates his brother. A murderer, and guilty enough to go to hell. He shudders. He's afraid to go to Hell. All his life he's been told he will go to Hell and he's scared shitless that it's true, that life and fate and destiny are beyond his control and he'll burn and rot for all eternity for all his failures and sins. _

_He didn't think you believed in the Bible, he whispers to you. You don't. But he does. And damned if you can't let him live a contradictory life, not without loving him, not without confronting him. Not if you're his father. You can't make him choose, no one can make him choose, but he still has to. He has to be a man. Has to believe what he says or he'll always be a failure, always be a coward. And he has to act on his beliefs so you ask him if he really loves his brother and you ask him to prove it. You ask him to become a man. You want me to talk to Achilles he asks, but no, no you say, your eyes never leaving the road, you want him to do what he thinks is right._

_He's a coward he says, he just can't face that. Anything but that. And you listen as he tells you that his sister got a foster home because she was a girl but they never gave him a chance, never gave any of them a chance for being boys for being men for being thugs and abusers and rapistsmolestersmurderers that they send to group homes to be neglected and ignored and preyed upon boys 12 to 17 all together in the same room when the lights go out, oh God when the lights go out-!_

_And you know what's coming. Your heart is heaving you're incensed and angry want to let out a primeval cry adrenaline burns pounds in your ears your veins hands gone white want to kill the motherfuckers who hurt your son, the negligent who made it possible for prison block gang rape shut up, bitch such my dick lay down and take it like a man-That's why he left foster care, you tell him as water pours down drowns the car your anger your sorrow nothing but numbness and cold. That's why he ran away. Yeah, he tells you. That's why I left. I thought they were supposed to keep us safe. And they didn't. They d-didn't. Two weeks. Night after night, they'd turn off the lights a-an-nd…I was so afraid. The only person I knew was Achilles…I should've told him I was leaving. Should've asked him to come with me. And maybe if he had, maybe if he'd left he wouldn't've, wouldn't've done what he did…_

_The night is empty, rain flows down the windshield like tears on the boy's face. And there he goes, trying to make people's decisions for them, take away choices, free will and guilt. But he can't. He just can't you tell him, he has to love them enough to let them go-_

_He killed three people! You've seen the pictures! I know Allen and Montoya were the ones who finally brought him in. And it was, it was horrible. It was my fault. I left him, I left him alone! I, I write him letters. But I can't see him. I just can't. I can't go to Arkham. I don't wanna ever go to Arkham. People have been telling him his whole life he'd end up there or prison. Said if he had any sense of decency he'd hang himself and save them the trouble. He doesn't want to ever go in, he begs you. Never. But until you do you'll always be running. Hiding. Until you confront this thing it will eat you alive. You know what's right. And until you act on that, until you go to Arkham Asylum and talk with Achilles, you're nothing but a coward, hiding behind paper walls and telling yourself you're safe until you're willing to confront what you could be, what every man can choose to be, to look at the disgusting depravity that we choose for ourselves and others, and admit that it could be you, you're no better than Maggie Kyle. _

_I made him what he is. That makes me a murderer. You're wrong, son. He chose that. He chose it for himself. Did your parents make you what you are? Do you hit women because your father did? Do you molest little kids because that was how you were raised and you can't help it, can't control it, that it's part of your very nature? No. No, you chose not to. You could be like that. But you're not. You tell him, you're not. He doesn't want to be like them, he pleads. Doesn't ever want to be like them-_

_You're not, you tell him. You're not. What if you're wrong he asks you and your heart turns to stone. What if all he is a walking time bomb. What if everyone he knows and loves is better off if he were dead, if he'd never been born. _

_Then you have a service pistol you say. You know how to use it. But you don't. You haven't. Because regardless of how much shit's in your life, you believe suicide is wrong. You believe in your heart that all men are responsible for their actions and to eternal consequences. That's why you haven't killed yourself. But not dying isn't the same thing as living. And until he's willing to live by that same principle, he's going to miserable. Guilty. And terrified. You'll be terrified, you tell him, just like Maggie-_

_He's terrified. Afraid. You say you'll hold his hand, walk with him as far as the door but he has to face his demons alone, his demons can only be faced alone and the demons are here and they are hungry he wants to run to back away to leave this place walk away from this Hell he doesn't want to go to Hell, he begs you, I don't want to go to Hell-_

_So you watch behind one-way glass with a psychiatrist as he enters the room to confront his fears, to love his brother to not be a murderer just like him. You've got to be shitting me, the demon says. What the fuck you want?_

_He never answered the letters. Fuck him and his letters. He gets letters all the time. Better ones. Ones with girls who write him because they're fans and think he's famous and hot and want to fuck me, look at these pictures, look at this-_

_He doesn't want to see it. Tells him to put it away. The demon laughs and smoke pours out his nostrils takes his forked tongue licks the pictures of the naked girl's genitals as your son cringes and turns away. You're such a pussy, look at this, look at this! The demon calls you know you want some be a man and say it! And you're trembling, sweating, growing cold with doubt and dread you shouldn't have brought him here, should never have brought him here the psychiatrist asks you what's going on you lie say nothing, nothing have to let him stand on his own have to let him be a man-_

_You come to arrest me? Again? The demon sneers. No, no he says. He came to apologize. To say he was sorry. He's sorry he left him, sorry he's in here, sorry he's become an animal and a murderer he loves him he loves him he's his brother you're my brother and I left you I left you behind I'm sorry you're my brother and I love you forgive me forgive him please forgive him-_

_But Achilles only laughs and howls as the room fills up with smoke and flames and your son cries out in agony that ain't all I done the demon gloats. That ain't the worst. And your son looks at him at those pictures of all those whorring girls and something's wrong heart beating loud in your ears the demon's smile is wrong taunting and terrible a rift in time and world and universes your son is trembling, trembling and he's in control the bastard's in control you have to get him out of there-_

_Cry little girl the demon shrieks. Go ahead and cry go ahead and squeal like you squealed when I fucked you pathetic cocksucker think you're so good so self-righteous want forgiveness well fuck you, fuck you again-!_

_You bury your face in your hands what have you done what the fuck have you done brought your son here handed him over to be tormented never believe you love him again what have you done what have I done-_

_But the room goes white-hot with iridescent light those flames extinguished feathered wings unfurled the Angel stands with the blade of Eden and the blood of Abel sings the words of power as the foundations tremble and the floodgates of the heavens unleash in a clap of thunder and darkness the electricity flickers backup generators a voice speaks from Heaven tells the demon I forgive you._

_The demon's lost but will not retreat defies the Cherub's sword mocking and unrepentant to the bitter end what you think you are, the padre? Think this is confessional? You gonna absolve me you fuckface pussy? No. The Angel rises, soft words like music like healing waters to your soul. I forgive you. Absolution is between you and God. You have to ask for that, Achilles. You son of a bitch, you think you've won. Don't you. Don't you! The demon calls struggles against the bonds that hold him chains clanking venom flying you fucking pansy! You fucking fag! When your balls gonna drop, huh? When are you gonna be a man? But the Angel turns your son turns white eyes glowing with a piercing fire, says he doesn't even know what that word means. Suck my dick, the demon shouts, defiant still suck it again! You know you liked it-!And the door clangs shut flames lick anew the demon is consumed by lust and hate chose to be consumed by lust and hate and cast into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. The Angel flies wings away you follow breathless down the empty halls of Hell bright light burning searing your retinas your heart breaking free at last to the pouring rain and freezing chill where the angels are weeping for man and his depravity and your beloved son-_

_You call for him and he turns to you. Are you happy now he cries accuses bares his grieving soul are you happy now choking on chill in the drenching downpour but no, no you say. But you are proud of him. You love him. And he's a man. He's a man and he's your son and he is goodness and innocence and love, and you are proud of him, you tell him again, so very proud of him. He's not he's not he wanted I wanted to kill him I wanted to hurt him he's my brother and I wanted to kill him I'm just like him I'm just like Achilles I'm a coward and he's worthless and evil an afraid so damn afraid he'll be just like him but you're not you tell him you're not. Because you feel violated feel fear feel anger have every right every reason to hate him to kill him and no one would care no one would blame would call it justice goodness eye for an eye tooth for a tooth but you walked away, walked away when you wanted to kill him and that's what makes the difference you chose to walk away-_

_Hold him close warm heart against yours fingers balling into fists in the freezing rain empty darkness beautiful boy looks up into your eyes asks his father again if he thinks he's a coward wishes he could be brave like you and you say no, no being brave doesn't mean having no fear. You live in fear everyday you can't defeat it can never be rid of it but you can go out to meet it be willing to face it every moment of every day it's not a battle you can win not a battle he can ever win it means admitting our weaknesses and still fighting anyways. So the boy blinks liquid eyes languid under the shadow of his hair as rain goes beading down his porcelain skin like crystal tears through impossible lashes whispers what are you afraid of-_

In the sprawling suburbs of Gotham City, Detective Aaron Lawless woke with a start, shuddering as he sat up in an empty bed. In the pounding heartbeats in his ears and the echoes of his panted breath he could still hear the resonant whisper of that weeping voice: what are you afraid of?

What every man, every father fears. And suddenly he was in the hall, forcing himself to a fast walk not a sprint fighting everything paternal instinct in his heart crying out it was futile useless _it was too late it hadalwaysbeentoolate-!_

But no. That tiny heart was still beating, Ian Anthony's heart was still beating chest rising and falling peacefully curled in bed with that goddamned cinnamon bear. Lawless bent over, pressed his lips to the boy's sweaty hair and let out a breath a sigh a sob of relief. Alive. His son was alive-

…_Jimmy_. He walked slowly back to the bedroom, fear mounting again in his heart as he passed picture after picture of his two sons hanging on the darkened walls. Hands groped through pants pockets in the darkness until fingers grasped the familiar feel of the phone.

"Aaron Lawless, GCPD. I need the location and status of a Legacy victim."

"The name, sir?"

"Connolly, Jimmy—No, this isn't a fucking prank call!" He snarled over the operator's protests. "You find my son, do you hear me? You tell me where my son is!"

* * *

**04:27 EST**

**FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch**

Long nights. Short weekends. Lousy pay. And that was just the good days, Edward "Eddie" Nashton sighed, laying his head onto the immaculately spotless surface of the reflective glass on the desktop. It was four in the morning and the consultant had been staring at this goddamned video for ten hours now while elsewhere in Gotham survivors were still being pulled out of the Legacy. Sometimes working with the FBI gave him a thrill, a sense of excitement and adventure, an ego stroke telling him he was putting his brilliant mind to a higher and nobler cause…and other times it meant working for a dumbass bureaucracy and sitting on his ass in a crowded cubicle and working hours of thankless, payless overtime. And this was one of those times. Give him a firesuit, a uniform, some basic first aid training and let him help, let him make a difference but no. Some FBI pshrink had failed him on his psych eval and now that was on his permanent government service record and Nashton knew the closest he'd ever come to employment in the Bureau was being called in to sift through paperwork, hard to track calls and ISP addresses for a consulting fee. But on the bright side, as a consultant he got privileges and perks-like listening to Flight of the Valkyries on his iphone while still on the payroll.

Consultant. Bureau-speak for we think you're a genius, Eddie, but it doesn't change a damn thing about your OCD. At least they were intelligent enough to realize his potential, he said for the thousandth time. No point in getting bitter, no point in holding a grudge. He still got to use his extraordinary intelligence to catch the bad guys who were foolish enough to let themselves get caught. Socrates is a man, and all men are mortal, Nashton quipped to himself. _Not unlike the young man in the video, getting cut from ear to ear,_ something darker within him riddled.

"How's it coming, Eddie?" Field Office Director Dan Murray's familiar voice cut across his thoughts. Damn. The Director at this hour of the morning? "Couldn't sleep." Dan replied to his unvoiced question. "Not with all this shit. Tell me you got something here."

Nashton unpopped his earbuds, the strains of Wagner's masterpiece disappearing in a garbled static blip. "Hard to say. The video quality's pretty poor, but without the original digital file there's no way for me to check for editing-this could've been shot with a modern camera then filtered to make it look older and less technical. DC told me it was a hoax, but going back over these pixels again, I dunno…" He sighed, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Damn technology's made it near impossible to tell."

Murray shook his head. "Don't give me that, man. You're our go-to guy for stuff like this. When I've got a riddle my boys can't solve I call you in. Don't tell me you've hit a dead end-"

"Not a dead end." Eddie corrected. Nashton had never hit a dead end in his life. It was simply a matter of making a call, faked or not, and until he convinced himself beyond a doubt he couldn't in good conscience make a decision. He'd never been wrong before, not once. And the longer he worked the more pressure he felt not to let a failure sully his record…

OCD? Maybe. "Just a snag. Yeah, the Joker's face is easy enough to fake, all over the news and all, and it's so bunged up to begin with…but shit if this blood doesn't look real. The splatter patterns, viscosity…you remember that faked execution video some kids pulled? Back during Operation Iraqi Freedom about some US soldier getting beheaded by Jihadists? Those kids got busted big."

Murray nodded. "I remember reading about it, yeah. You think this is something similar?"

"Maybe." Nashton said. "Because there's only two explanations I can come up with using current evidences, and one is it's a fake. A clever, well disguised fake that will be damn near impossible to disprove."

"And the second?" The Director asked.

"You ain't gonna like it." Nashton warned. "It's real. It's real and some punkass kids found it and kept hold of it until the right moment then released it just for kicks to pin this on the Joker…either that or he gave it to his followers, which means our guys should've known the Legacy was coming."

Murray nodded. "It's possible. Is that your official statement?"

The consultant clenched his eyes, raked his nails across his forehead and chewed his lip. "I dunno, Danny-boy. I just don't know."

"Christ, Eddie. I need this. If it's a no go it's a no go but my department has to know in order to focus. You have any idea the amount of friends and family my men have lost to this bastard? And what sort of pressure that puts on us?" Murray shook his head, and held up his hands to stop himself. "Hell, I'm sorry man. It's not fair to say that. You do know. You're one of us-"

Not quite. Nashton thought. But the apology was well meant if not entirely truth. "You're the best, Eddie. The goddamned best. And right now the world's gone to shit and you tell me you have a problem and I'm just not prepared to hear it. What's holding you up?"

"Initially I didn't think it was fake." He grunted. "But _logically_ it can't be anything else. The voicing pattern, pitch and range are perfect-like a signature, but again, the resolution on the sound and video are pretty poor. Even with the best analysis software I can't rule out a voice actor with similar vocal qualities and damn good imitation skills. I've also run it against the Douglas and Engel videos and all the Joker MO files and it fits this bastard's personality to a T. But hell, this is the information age and those vids are open to the press and so are the court records declaring him not guilty by reason of insanity-and they're highly specific, mind-so it's entirely possible and plausible it's some film students jacking around, especially with the CGI they have nowadays, but-"

But the blood is just so goddamned _real_. Now there was a conjunction he had been using too often in the last ten hours. He needed a break. A shower. A good night's sleep and a decent meal, not this pre-packaged garbage from the floor's vending machine. "What's holding you up?" Murray asked patiently.

'This." Eddie said, pulling up the clip and enhancing it to fill the 27-inch Mac monitor. The speakers were on silent-hell if he had wanted to listen to the audio all night-but the boy's lips moved to mouth those three deadly words: _You're. Not. God. Purple gloves, shining scalpel, boy's face held firmly and without escape those horror-filled eyes taking up the screen-_

He froze the frame. Ran facial recognition software to create an eerie green grid over the cheekbones, eyes, and jaw. "He look familiar?"

Murray stared long and hard, face creasing into a frown. "No." The Director finally answered. "But with all the bruising and the plaster-"

"What about now?" Eddie brought up a second image, a famous image, one no Gothamite could ever mistake and ran a comparison. "And that's why it _has_ to be a fake. Someone had to scan this in and doctor the film up to poorer quality-make it look like VHS even-because it's _just not possible._ The Joker's been in Arkham for over a year, so this can't really be the Kid from Stop the Violence-"

Murray yelped. "What? _Connolly-?"_

"Yeah. Yeah that's what the guy says. Says his name is Jimmy Connolly-"

"Put on the audio!" Murray barked. "Put on the audio and play that clip again! Play it! Fuck it, Eddie, I have to hear his voice-!"

_And as if my face wasn't ugly enough al-__ready__, you had to go and uh, cut it up. Don't ya think this'll leave a __scar?__ And now wouldn't that be such a __sha__-muh, scarring up such a uh, __pretty__ face-_

_Oh God- _

_Yes, Johnnie-boy, I am uh, __god-duh__ . I have the power to kill you or let you uh, __live__. That makes me uh, pretty, pretty __di-vine__, don't ya think?_

_You're…not…God. _

"Again." Murray ordered, face a ghastly white. "Play it again."

_You're. Not. God. You're. Not. God. You're Not God._ The panted words looped with those agonized breaths that perfect bubble of blood slice through the cheek like a fresh cut peach and that scream, that horrible, squelching, piteous scream-

Director Dan Murray shut his eyes, and fell slowly forward onto the desk. Nashton closed the video, sickened. "That's why I had the sound off, man." He mumbled as Murray wiped his tearing eyes and struggled for words.

"Eddie, this thing is fucking real."

Nashton shook his head. "I'm telling you, that's _impossible_, Danny-"

"Don't fuck with me, man, I know that Kid!" Murray swore. "Wrote him a fucking letter to get into academy-"

"It's not _possible,_ Danny. It just _isn't_." Eddie nearly pleaded. "No way in Hell Arkham security wouldn't reported if that high a profiled patient went missing-"

"I don't give a damn about Arkham security!" The Director cried. "Call a team over, right now! I want retinal and fingerprint confirmation of the Joker! ASAP! And not a word of this leaks, you hear?"

Numbness. Cold. Shock. He'd discredited it as impossible. No way the video could be real because the Joker was in Arkham. Worked all night to find a way it could be fake let that bastard have another ten hours because he couldn't stand being wrong had to know for sure should've gone with his common sense instead of dicking around trying to prove himself-

And that Kid, that Kid from Stop the Violence, whoever the Hell he was…he was dead. He was really, legitimately dead…and for all Nashton's intelligence and experience he could only think of one thing to say: what an absolutely goddamned _awful _way to die. "You're saying this thing's real. I…shouldn't we…Gordon-?" He finally whispered.

"I don't know." The Director moaned, tearing his hair. "Eddie, I don't fucking know and until I do I can't risk scaring anybody. Word like this gets out, word gets out we even suspect the Joker's loose and the whole world'll go to Hell. You didn't hear it from me, Eddie, but Calderon was this close to Manhattaning the PRC on Tuesday. News caught wind of the tension, and Chinese citizens were attacked in DC, somebody shot at people leaving their embassy…hell of a mess. We can't leak this until we're sure…but Hell. Gordon. Lawless. _Connolly_…I know these guys…and if this is what I think it is…" His voice trailed off into hopelessness.

"The shit-storm ain't even hit yet." Nashton finished quietly.

Murray sighed. "Tell me when they get to Arkham." His voice shook with grief, rage and doubt. "And pray to God they find the Joker."

"Yeah." Eddie whispered. "Dead."

"Today I'd settle for alive." The Director returned. "Jesus, never thought I'd hear myself saying that…"

* * *

**04:52 EST**

**1776 Lexington Lane**

"Detective Lawless?" an authoritative voice interrupted the chords of elevator music as the anxious father juggled a curly-headed toddler, still fast asleep. "We have location for your son."

Aaron Lawless whispered a prayer of relief. "Where is he?"

"Arkham Asylum. I suggest you contact them for more information." And with that pronouncement, the line went dead._ I can't go to Arkham. I don't wanna ever go to Arkham._ _I don't wanna go to Hell…_

He held Ian closer, kissed those auburn curls, tried to find comfort and calm as the Angel's face from that dream swam hauntingly before him, that unanswered question festering in the back of his mind: _what are you afraid of?_ In the stillness and darkness, cradling Ian, wondering and worrying about his wife and second son, the Detective finally found an answer.


	32. Absolving Apollo

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: **_**to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**_

**AN: This chapter is rated M for violence, sexual reference and language.**

**For clarification: The events depicted in this chapter occurred on August 23rd, the morning the video containing Connolly's death was released by the FBI. This chapter fills in the timeline of the story between Eris Unleashed and Lacrimosa. Kyle Santy's murder was referenced in a flashback concerning Abram Bramowitz and Jonathan Crane in En Nomine Patris. And if you want to meet the real Dr.'s Mattews and Stanley, go find them in Beowulfwulf's a Psychic among Gotham Psychos!

* * *

**

The following information was compiled by Operation WATCHDOG concerning the personnel file of GCPD Detective Jimmy Connolly.

**Name:** Jimmy Connolly

**Rank: **Detective (Partner: Lawless, Aaron)

**DOB: **12/13/2007

**Height:** 5' 9'' (Amended 5/13/30 from 5' 4'')

**Weight:** 127 lbs. (Amended 5/13/30 from 97 lbs)

**Physician's Note:** While growth spurts at this age are relatively uncommon, there exists established precedent for significant development for those with lower pediatric percentile rankings that can signify the end of puberty. [This phenomena] is also noted in military and other institutional facilities with standardized exercise programs in those not previously physically active. Hormone function tests came back negative for increased amounts of HGH signifying pituitary adenoma, and drug tests were negative for the presence of synthetic testosterone. X-rays of the long bones indicate epiphyseal fusion has not yet occurred. Detective Connolly will be monitored for further skeletal changes.

**Race: **Caucasian

**Religious preferences:** Non-denominational Christian (revised from Roman Catholic)

**High School Education: **GED

**University:** Gotham University

**Degree: **BA

**Major: **Criminal Justice

**Rank:** 57/103

**Cumulative GPA:** 3.1

**Comments:** Freshman Academic Advisor notes reading deficits, with strong dyslexia, in addition to poor interaction with social peers.

"Jimmy Connolly struggles as a student due to past academic handicaps often common in males entering the primary educational system at a later age. In spite of this, he applies himself well to academic challenges, and refuses the label of 'learning impaired' for testing purposes. However, many professors have noted [Jimmy] does not work well in groups, and that he is perceived socially backward…awkward…poorly socialized…disliked by peers… 'ostracized, mercilessly bullied, purposefully excluded from social functions'. When asked, he is unwilling to discuss emotional or personal issues and has declined referrals to resources such as Student Mental Health Services. Student Health Clinic notes physical underdevelopment on Tanner scale for age group, ranking in the 15th percentile. [This] in addition to emotional and social difficulties may serve as indicators of difficult childhood. My consistent impression is of a young man who was 'left behind' academically and who exhibits poor social dynamics especially with other males. Objectively, I must note that these combined impressions are indicative and classic signs of being raised in an abusive environment and/or in absence of a stable father-figure."

-Melea Kirkov, Freshman Academic Advisor Gotham University

**Extracurricular Activities/Former Employment:** AFT notes extensive underage involvement in sting operations revoking tobacco and liquor licenses to establishments selling to minors. DEA also confirms his testimony played a crucial role in charging and sentencing three GCPSC personnel and 15 students in the illegal sale of prescription narcotics and manufacture of recreational drugs on GCPSC property.

**Criminal Record:** Juvenile possession/selling of controlled substances/bringing controlled substances onto school property: charges dropped and record expunged. AFT vouches to Narcotics division that Connolly was in fact part of undercover sting operation BUSTED, attempting to gain hard evidence of illegal storage and purchase of alcohol by minors on GCPSC property. AFT further states they were currently unaware the greenhouse facilities were also being used to manufacture methylamphetamine. A write-up of the incident was submitted for review by both law enforcement divisions, and all parties agreed to take affirmative steps towards more open communications in the future.

**Additional Note by IAB:** DA Carl Finch took the AFT to arraignment for charges of reckless endangerment of a minor. The case was dismissed by Judge Surillo as it would compromise 13 other ongoing investigations of a similar nature. Surillo claimed voluntary military enlistment pre-majority as a precedent for her ruling. AFT Captain Jonathan McClain was indicted and convicted of Custodial Interference in Family Court by Gotham County Child Protective Services, serving a year of suspension without pay.

**Community Service Record: **Sisters of Mercy Pantry: 2027 through present. Shop with a Cop Christmas Charity: 115 lifetime hours. Wayne Legacy Scholarship Program: 800 lifetime hours (requisite of 200 yearly hours of volunteer work through local charities to remain eligible for free schooling at a Gotham City Public Higher Education Facility of student's choosing). Stop the Violence: April 2030 through present.

**Letters of Recommendation:**

I was first introduced to Jimmy Connolly during my career as Assistant District Attorney. Since that initial encounter I have been consistently appreciative of his unwavering honestly, sincerity, and strength of character. I am well acquainted with this young man from a professional standpoint, and understand he has overcome severe hardships in his life. However admirable I find these traits, I would have reservations recommending him for your program due to his age and lack of experience. Jimmy Connolly can be extremely mature for his age and peer group but interacts quite poorly with them, as well as psychological services. I believe he seeks to act in other's best interests but I frequently find him to be lacking in social discernment. As a legal professional, I feel there are personality traits that Jimmy Connolly exhibits due to his youth and poor socialization that must first be met before I can recommend him for matriculation to your law enforcement program. -Rachel Dawes, ADA

Jimmy Connolly and I were introduced in my laboratory during the course of Forensic Criminology 201, summer semester 2027. As an instructor I would describe Jimmy as diligent, responsible, and strikingly honest. He has consistently striven to do his best in his coursework and possesses great intelligence and deductive reasoning skills. He has been a joy as a student and I look forward to continued interaction during his career. Sincerely, -Nora Fields, MD/PhD Gotham County Coroner

Jimmy Connolly was first brought to my attention at a national police academy training conference at Quantico, Virgina. During this conference, some of the nation's most promising young law enforcement students met to undergo what I would describe as voluntary hazing to test their reasoning and emotional capacities under intense stress in a controlled climate. A week into the program, an altercation occurred resulting in the dismissal of 8 of the participants for aggression and violence, with three being charged criminally for hate crimes. As I was witness to the event, I found it to be my duty to vouch to the behavioral board for Jimmy's participation in the fight, and to seek his re-instatement into the simulation program. When a female student who openly expressed her sexual orientation to classmates was struck repeatedly and verbally degraded Jimmy went to her aid with no regards for his own personal safety. When I subsequently interviewed all participants and witnesses to the event during an official investigation, Jimmy again distinguished himself by offering no excuses for his involvement. His signed statement simply read 'Guys don't hit girls. It doesn't matter if they're gay or whatever, you don't hit girls and you don't let them get hit.'

Jimmy Connolly completed the simulation with professionalism and courtesy towards other participants and facilitative staff. Despite his age, he consistently handled the burden of stress of physical and mental exhaustion placed upon our trainees with the maturity of an experienced veteran. I was proud then to serve as a character reference in getting him re-instated to the Quantico training, and it is an honor for me to now recommend him with highest regards to your law enforcement program. Sincerely,-Renee Montoya, GCPD Homicide Detective

Let's skip the bullshit. Jimmy Connolly don't look like much, but the brother's got a good head. Good heart. You'd be a fucking idiot not to hire him. -Crispus Allen, GCPD Homicide Detective

To Whom it May Concern,

It is my understanding that Mr. Connolly, a Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholar, has recently graduated from Gotham University with a BA in Criminal Justice. I would like to take this opportunity to commend him for his pursuit of academic excellence evidenced by a consistent grade point average and timely graduation, as well as the sense of initiative and self-discipline inherent for the fulfillment of his required community service hours.

Mr. Connolly exemplifies the Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship's intention of aiding deserving students in financial need. As such, I find him most assuredly worthy of consideration for employment. –Alfred Pennyworth, Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship Committee Chair

I have not much to say concerning Jimmy Connolly other than I hate to lose such a fine candidate to the GCPD, but unfortunately for my department he has been quite insistent upon his chosen career. I congratulate you on such a great catch, as truly compassionate and enthusiastic law enforcement officers in any field are increasingly hard to come by. With all my best regards, -Dan Murray, FBI Gotham City Field Office Director

**IA Tribunal Hearings:** Connolly vs. Board (See also Paltron vs. Board #8)

"It is my professional opinion that Detective Connolly should be asked to resign from his position as a law enforcement officer due to past psychological trauma that clearly influences his objectivity and ability to perform his duties with the emotional distance necessary for the Homicide Department. Preferred treatment would include re-socialization by means of psychotherapy and participation in a Domestic Violence Support Group. I again must express my utmost concern that Detective Paltron has been allowed to remain on the force in spite of her unprofessionalism and numerous documented emotional instabilities. Due to her documented tendencies towards aggression, physical intimidation, gratuitous violence and blatant disrespect for the due process of law I find her to be a danger to herself and society as well as a liability to the Gotham City Police Department. Recommended actions include immediate dismissal from service followed by incarceration at a Mental Health Facility for the benefit of the public until a more specific psychiatric diagnosis and treatment regimen can be made." -Dr. Harleen Quinzel

After review by the GCPD Board of Behavioral and Correctional Services, Detective Connolly was found to be acting within the scope of his duties as a law enforcement officer for charges against him concerning reckless endangerment of co-worker Anna Ramirez on March 2nd, 2030.

Detective Paltron was also found to be acting in the scope of her duties on March 2nd, 2030. Charges of Police Brutality and Excessive Force were dropped, but Detective Paltron was held in contempt of court after dry-firing a court officer's side arm at court-appointed psychological consult, Dr. Harleen Quinzel while on the stand [Note: the subsequent objectivity of Dr. Quinzel's clinical findings was called into question]. Disciplinary action against Detective Paltron to be taken at the discretion of commanding officer, Commissioner James Gordon.

**Psychological Services: **Detective Connolly seems distant, and avoids direct answers about his personal life and past. When pressed, he admits to a distrust in psychotherapy as a field and the confidentiality of the system. Below is a taped recording of a mandatory bi-annual self-awareness session supervised by Dr. Chase Meridian. It was revealed during the course of the interview that Detective Connolly had been prompted by the Internal Affairs fraud committee.

**Connolly: **I think you honestly believe what you do is helpful, and I admire you for it-like a lot-but I've got good friends. I've got a family. For the first time in my life, I have a Dad. So when I'm stuck on something, when this gets…when it's too much, you know, I go to him. I know I can go to him. And I do. That's a lot more wholesome than talking to a stranger, right? Pshink or not. That's what you're here for, right? You talk to us twice a year, make your little write up…but what you really want to know is if we've got our own support systems. And I do. I really, really do.

**Psych:** You mentioned issues. What sort of issues?

**Connolly: **Like the kind you talk about with your Dad. Look, I've started to work out-you'd never know from looking, right?-and sure, I could eat better. But I worked with AFT and Narcotics as a kid, so cigarettes and drugs just gross me out. Plus I have like zero alcohol tolerance, too, so drinking has never appealed to me. It smells horrible and who wants to be puking in the toilet all night?

**Psych: **You want me to know you don't have any addictions. And that's admirable, Jimmy. But I've been on this job for a long time, I get…what's the beat term for it? Gut feelings? And I've got gut feelings that you're hiding something from me. Maybe something you're embarrassed about. Maybe something like…oh, internet pornography, for instance.

**Connolly:** [silence]

**Psych: **Do you struggle with an addiction to pornography, Jimmy?

**Connolly:** Look, if this is about the Playboy in my desk, it's because Milton puts it there. That's Fred Milton, by the way. He thinks it's a riot because he knows it bothers me. Every week, he brings a new one, and I never know where it will be. This one time he put it in my presentation case and it fell out in the middle of City Hall-

**Psych:** I see. And…how did you handle this?

**Connolly:** Well, I was pretty upset. Okay, I was pissed off. I-I might've cried. I just felt…I felt dirty, you know? Like, it's bad enough having to see it but now I had all these people thinking you know, that it was, well, mine.

**Psych**: And what did you do to resolve this situation? Have you confronted this…Mr. Milton about the problem?

**Connolly:** [Pause] Um, sorta. I was real upset, and Mr. Lawless…he said he'd take care of it.

**Psych:** I see. You rely on him a lot, don't you?

**Connolly:** Yeah. Yeah I do. Mr. Lawless…he's a really great guy. He's a good da-er, Detective.

**Psych:** And what did he do to 'take care of it'? Did you have a counseling session, a talk with your sexual harassment committee-?

**Connolly:** [Nervous Laughter] Um, no. Mr. Lawless said we, well, said I had to learn to handle things like a man. So we, um, he suggested and I kinda let him…

**Psych:** You let him-?

**Connolly:** I don't know if I should tell you. I don't wanna get him in trouble.

**Psych:** I assure you the results of these sessions are strictly confidential.

**Connolly: **[Sarcasm] Right. Sure. They're never computerized so no one in the IAB admin could ever read them.

**Psych:** Was what your partner did illegal in nature?

**Connolly:** Well, strictly speaking? Um, no. No there's no specific statute against posting someone's name and number with the phrase 'call for a good time' on the single's bulletin of one of Gotham's most prominent gay bars. At least, not to my knowledge.

**Psych:** Well, that was certainly…mature of you. And how exactly did you hope to ameliorate this problem by angering and humiliating Mr. Milton?

**Connolly: **That's what I asked. But my da-um, but Mr. Lawless said sometimes you have to learn to fight fire with fire. You know, meet people where they are and send a message, their style. He still leaves stuff in my desk, yeah, but he's never put it anywhere in my bags or someplace people'll find it since then. So I guess it worked. At least sorta. Cool, right?

**Psych:** [Sigh] Well, regardless of my preferences on the matter, yes. It would appear that you have successfully delivered a message to Mr. Milton. And again, regardless of my personal preferences I must admit a little…oh, shall we say 'male-bonding' can indeed be a healthy thing within the workforce. But what I'm more interested in now is the issue of pornography itself. You said, if I recall correctly, that it 'bothers you'. What exactly do you mean by that?

**Connolly:** [Pause] I mean someone leaves porn in my desk and it bothers me. That's what I mean.

**Psych:** I see. And what do you mean by…bothers? Are you annoyed, angry, do you feel guilty about sexual impulses?

**Connolly:** I mean guys are supposed to protect women. That's what they do. Protect them. Respect them. Look out for them. Call me old fashioned, bigoted, narrow minded, fundamentalist or whatever, but I don't see how objectifying women to nothing more than photo-shopped masturbatory aids does either.

**Psych:** I see. And do you feel guilty when you masturbate?

**Connolly:** Seriously-? Did you seriously ask me that question? Um, ew? Did I not say there were issues I could talk to my Dad about? Right from the very beginning? And just for clarification, there's only one thing that can make you even more of a loser than not having a wife or girlfriend, and that's 'pretending' that you do. So no. I don't feel guilty about something I don't do. You wonder why we hate coming to these stupid sessions so much? It's because you make them about as enjoyable as sitting an annual PAP smear.

**Psych:** [laughter] That's an interesting turn of phrase, Jimmy. Men don't typically get an annual PAP smear.

**Connolly: **And neither do women. At least not twice in a two month time slot from two separate gynecologists. Unless of course, they want a second opinion or they're conspiring with their doctor to cover something they still wanted insurance to pay for, say the termination of an unwanted pregnancy with their supervisor's baby?

**Psych: **What-? How did-? I…I…I do not appreciate false accusations!

**Connolly: **Let me guess, it was all 'strictly confidential'. Sure, your appointment book, excused leave of absence for medical issues and the billing statement to the department might claim one thing, but Sandra Stanley's inventory was somehow short 1 dosage of MTX following the day of your visit. And that's a bit suspicious, but so is driving half-way across town to a doctor you've never visited before for a routine annual screening when Dr. Matthew's results had already come in, especially when it's with an old med school buddy. But once it's in the system, it's open for interpretation by _anyone who wants to read_. You don't appreciate false accusations or confidences? Neither do I.

**Psych:** [Silence]

**Connolly:** You're here to rat on us. Report us. Rate us on a subjective system of flawed values and assumptions. So pardon me for not trusting someone who gets paid upwards of forty-five dollars an hour to come to preconceived conclusions about my life. At least when my Dad asks me about stuff like this, I know it's because he _cares._

**Psych:** Detective Lawless really did teach you to fight fire with fire, didn't he.

**Connolly:** No. Not really. He taught me about interrogation technique. Fighting fire with fire would be telling you what I think of a woman who would trade sexual favors for a raise, and a mother who would kill her baby just to keep her job.

**Psych:** How dare you. How dare you! You men don't understand anything about what goes on in the workforce, what we women have to do to survive! Roe vs. Wade was upheld for that reason and you have no right to bring that up here-!

**Connolly:** No, and as much as I'd like to I don't have the right to arrest you for murder in the first degree, either. But by recommendation of the Internal Affairs Fraud Committee, I am placing you under arrest for conspiracy and falsification of medical documents. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney-

**Note: **Dr. Meridian has been temporarily relieved of her duties waiting a trial for falsification of medical records, false reporting, and fraud. Dr. Sandra Stanley, OB/GYN is now up for peer review with the state board of health for falsification of medical records, theft of controlled substances and insurance fraud. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, the supervisor in question over the alleged paternity, could not be reached for questioning.

**Yearly Peer Review:**

Concerning my new partner Jimmy Connolly I must make several things clear. I was remiss in my first impressions and evaluations of his character, personality, and ability to perform his duties as a law enforcement officer during his probationary period. I had been aware since the beginning of our partnership that he possessed keen deductive skills, but expressed doubts over his ability to relate with others in a professional sense, retain the integrity of our investigations, and to cope with the emotional strain of the inherently violent and tragic nature of working in Homicide.

However, since this time Detective Connolly has shown both a remarkable willingness to learn and remarkable resilience of character to where I feel not only comfortable but confident with his abilities to handle the stress of this position and perform successful interrogations even with the most difficult or malignant personalities. He is receptive to mentoring, diligent in his duties, takes initiative on joint operations and frequently uses free time to volunteer and serve in the community. He is respectful to women, respectful to the dead, respectful to the families and friends of victims who must be labeled suspect even during a time of great grief. Despite his youth, he has consistently striven to meet the expectations of his position with the maturity of a man.

In sum, he's a damn good Kid. -Detective Aaron Lawless

**Note:** as of August 23rd, Detective Connolly has been declared MIA, presumed dead until convincing evidences can be provided to the contrary.

**Additional Note:** Detective Connolly was declared legally dead on August 30th by Gotham County Coroner Nora Fields under Death in Absentia. Fatally copious amounts of blood were discovered at the scene of the Detective's assault by Arkham escapee The Joker. While PCR analysis and other genetic tests were inconclusive due to evidence tampering, a video recording published on YouTube (for more information on Arewehavingfunyet and FBI internet restrictions, see GCPD protocol PANDEMONIUM) was submitted for forensic review.

**Final Note:** Detective Aaron Lawless has requested notification of Detective Connolly's remains once identified, and has petitioned courts for rights to the body. As of this writing, no next of kin could be located to contradict this request.

* * *

**Friday August 23rd 2030**

**18:05 EST**

**Gordon Household**

Tuna helper.

"Bleargh. What is that? Dogsick?" James Jr. frowned, wrinkling his nose.

"Just set the table." Barb whispered, feeling the prick of tears in her eyes.

It wasn't much but it was _food_. Kids were kids and kids complained and it shouldn't bother her. They were ignorant. Naïve. And honest to God she preferred it that way. They didn't understand how or why the food had gotten so scarce and so crummy since the Legacy had fallen. James Jr. was getting there. Watching the news with a frown, old enough to know something was wrong, very, very desperately wrong but lacked the capacity to know what. Didn't know how utterly changed the face of the globe would be.

No, Jimmy and BB just knew Daddy was gone. Always gone. That people were crying on TV. People on the streets were angry. And mommy's cooking had gotten horrible, tonight being the piece de resistance of the downward debacle. So she'd left it in the oven too long and it had gotten dried out and crusty on top waiting and keeping it warm for Jim. She placed her face in her mitted hands and stirred more 2%milk into the increasingly unappetizing concoction that James Jr. insisted looked like 'barf.'

After years of marriage, through sickness, health, better and worse, Barbara Gordon knew her husband well. Jim's career was tough. Tougher than she could ever imagine. When he had worked SVU there were nights they never spoke at all, weeks dragging into months where they had hardly touched, where sex and intimacy were out of the question. Many wives knew how to read a husband's expression, prepared themselves as he walked in the door…

Barbara Gordon could read a knock. The speed. The volume. Quick and loud meant Jim was awake, alert, happy to be home. A quick knock meant he wanted her to open the door, greet her and kids with a kiss and hug, say how much he loved them…

The sound of keys meant he thought she was sleeping. Didn't want to wake her. But she sat up nights anyways. Couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, tucked the kids in bed and waited on the couch, fretting and worrying lest she get that visit from anonymous officers saying he'd been shot, wounded, killed…that knock had come last year, and it had been unbearable.

But tonight's knock was slow and soft, faint and weary as it had been the night Surillo, Loeb, and Dawes were killed and her heart stopped cold in the dining room, along with her children's conversation.

"Mom?" James Jr. asked worriedly. "Mom-!"

Tonight's knock meant Jim didn't have the strength to lift the keys to the lock. Tonight meant Jim was heart broken…and she would be as well. More grief. More pain. More suffering. When would it end. When would their family stop hurting. When could they finally heal-?

"Stay here." Barb ordered, slipping the oven mitts onto the table next to the forgotten casserole. "Just stay in here."

The walk to the door took forever. Who was it this time, she wondered fleetingly. Someone she knew. Someone she'd invited into her home, introduced her children to, gotten attached to against her will and better judgment, opened her heart and family up only to more grief and pain-

She opened the door. Jim said nothing. After twenty-five years, he didn't have to.

"He's back." Barb whispered numbly. "The Joker. He's back."

* * *

**12 hours previously…**

**06: 38 EST**

**Ramirez Residence**

"Ramon, Jamie, _vamanos_!" Anna Ramirez called again into her twin sons' bedroom. "_Quieren que están tardes_?"

"No, mama!" The seven year olds cried, "We're coming!"

"Pronto!" The Detective warned sternly, balancing her youngest on her hip. Little Miguel was still sound asleep even after she'd dressed him, chubby cheek laid against her breasts. In the kitchen Anna poured the boy's Life cereal as the morning news began to run.

"This is Chris Holden of Good Morning Gotham," the announcer began wearily. "In the midst of all the chaos, I regret to inform viewers of the kidnapping of a surgical team from the grounds of Gotham United Methodist. Dr. Marcos Chavez, an abdominal surgeon, Dr. Sajja Luang, a retired trauma surgeon, Wanza Kalulu, Michelle Harding, and Katrina Gomez, all surgical nurses, were reported missing yesterday after failure to report to work. Police Commission James Gordon released this video footage from hospital security confirming the that known members of a local Anarchist movement may have masterminded this unprecedented attack-"

Ramirez blanched, juggling poor little Miguel to fumble for the remote. She turned the television off. Got that chaos and mayhem and fear out of her house. Her mind. But still her morning held no peace: the twins were fighting again, Miguel began to hiccough hungrily, and above their clamor she began scanning her voicemail for messages. The Nursing Home had called again, a mild case of pneumonia, yet another thing to wonder and worry about like the stack of backpacks and school supplies piled haphazardly by the door. When was her mother going to be well enough to come home? When would the schools open up again? And how en _el nombre de dios_ was she supposed to raise _tres hijos_ on her own-?

It would be alright, _todo está bien_, she sighed, leaning against the cabinets for support and privacy-it did no good to let the boys see her cry. This would all get cleared up, she shook her head against the choking sob in her throat. This too would pass. They'd survive. And whenever Jimmy was feeling up to it he'd be able to help her with the kids again…

* * *

**Lawless Residence**

"We can only speculate on what the kidnapper's plans might be." Mike Engle's voice rang from the television. "I don't care what criminal psychologists say. You can't predict these kind of men, Chris. They're evil. Pure evil. And to understand that you've got to be evil yourself."

"And you would know that better than anyone, Mr. Engle." Christopher Holden returned somberly. "Do you have any words for the family members of these missing people?"

"Yeah, yeah I do, Chris." Engle said. "The Batman's out there still, folks. And he'll do the right thing. He'll bring these people to justice, and you can count on that."

"Good for you, Engle." Aaron Lawless grunted. "Takes balls to say that on TV. Especially now." But TV 18 had always been a staunch supporter of the vigilante, one of the many reasons it was the primary news station in the Lawless household. "Jesus!" Aaron yelped, recognizing the faces of the victims for the first time. "That's _Chavez! _Mark Chavez!_"_

"I still can't believe it." Amy whispered numbly as the names and faces of the kidnapped appeared again. Michelle. Katrina. Wanza...and Mark. _Mark-!_ Shock, terror and shame rippled through her body. The taste and feel of Mark's olive skin, that wide, wild Latino grin-she shuddered, and cuddled closer to her husband, safety and comfort underwritten by dark currents of guilt. Her husband's arms...and yet there was a tiny, undeniable part deep down inside like a wicked, sinful ember that wished those arms belonged to someone else.

"Jesus, Ames." Her husband breathed. "You know all those people-"

"If I hadn't left to get Ian-" She began, but he shushed her with a kiss.

"You're safe now." He promised tenderly. "I've got you." The Detective held her, muting the TV to shelter her from farther fear and harm.

But the harm was already done. Their fear was real. And as the Detective drew her close he had no reason to suspect that her heart-like his-was even now preoccupied with the safety of another.

* * *

**06:56 EST**

**FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch**

"Sir, we're forty minutes out. You want us to double-time it?"

"No." Murray sighed. "Go slow. Routine. I don't want anyone alerted to suspicions, you hear? No lights, no sirens, just a standard, routine sweep. That's what you tell any Arkham staff and any civilians. Not a word of this leaks."

"Roger that. We'll keep you posted." Then the radio fell suddenly silent. As the car neared the Asylum Murray began to pace, repeatedly wiping sweat from his thinning hair line and praying to God that he'd been wrong. But that face, there could be no mistaking that face…

The Director walked back to his cluttered desk, bringing up his fishing trip with McClain on the digital photo frame buried beneath those forgotten yearly employee reviews. Kanai River, Alaska, two years ago and about the most damned fun any friends could ask for. Underneath their big city exteriors both the FBI and AFT directors harbored a secret soft spot for fishing that none of their co-workers, friends, or spouses could understand. And there he was, Jack McClain, holding up a sleek, wicked salmon and grinning from ear to ear. They'd had a trip to Anchorage planned for this September since last Christmas…

Jesus. How the hell was he supposed to tell Jack that his favorite pupil had just been murdered?

_We pick up this Kid, haul him into the van and he's squirming and fighting-remind you of anything? Jack grunted as he hauled against the twenty-pound trout. But he's tiny, you know? Figured he was about thirteen, maybe a look out for a local dealer. Anyways, we drive, and I pull the bag off his head and first thing he yells is 'I won't sell drugs. Not for you, not for anybody!' And he keeps hollering that until we get him calmed down, and we knew we'd picked up the right one. Most of these Narrows kids will do anything for money. Got a friend in Vice who just charged an eleven year old with prostitution…mostly we get these kids, try to use 'em, but they're hard to keep track of, and we've had problems with them giving tip offs for product to sell out on the street. No, this Kid was different. Practically a godsend._ _You wouldn't believe the amount of idiots we busted with this one. Liquor licenses, tobacco licenses, hell, one time we ended up busting a Narc Op on accident, that was a Hell of a mess_-

Murray sighed and placed the glowing photo frame back in his desk. It's the good that die young, he reflected, while the old veterans got stiffer and saltier and everyday looked a little more forward to retirement. Before his majority, Jimmy Connolly had helped AFT with underage tobacco and liquor sales and getting licenses revoked. Hell of a mess during that trial, Jack thought their cover might have been blown for good but the Kid pulled through. Santy would've walked, too. Gotten away with it and the Kid still refused to tell the court where upwards of $1,500 in cash hidden in his apartment had come from…

If they'd known, they'd have gotten him a bank account. Trust fund. Runaway foster kids didn't have documentation, but they could have gotten around it somehow. Jack had no idea the Kid had wanted to go to college. Most just wanted the money to live off of…and hell, if they'd known he wanted schooling they've paid for it themselves. Connolly was a good Kid. Damn good Kid, even then at 17.

Jack would take it hard. Maybe too hard, Murray pondered. The Coroner's office said Santy had been shot twice in the liver. Long, nasty, fucking painful way to die. Cold case now, no new leads in nearly six years. No good cop looked too hard for the killer of a child molester, Jack had stated cryptically. Not when the kid in question was one of their own…

Director Dan Murray was no fool when it came to ethics and slippery slopes. Knew the danger of trusting a power outside the accountability of the law, Hell, any modern historian had only to point to the Batman. But Murray also knew the cost of failing, the number of lives of good men, good friends that had been lost to this city in order to bring the Joker in. And even then, without the Batman's help, it would have never been possible.

…if only these anonymous vigilantes would see fit to return, Murray reflected. Here in Gotham's eleventh hour, he couldn't afford to be exclusive about her heroes.

* * *

**07:01 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

Even exhausted and weak, Alfred Pennyworth was still a soldier. Years in SS had instilled in him the unusual qualities of deep sleep and instant wakefulness. Even now, nearly in his seventies, the Butler had the phone off the hook by the second ring and his voice held no trace of weariness.

"Wayne residence." Alfred answered crisply.

"Wake Mr. Wayne." Came the unmistakable tones of WE CEO Lucius Fox. "The FBI has something he needs to see…"

* * *

**07: 15 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

Sometimes life could be a _bitch_, AIC Heusinger decided. "Ma'am, the prisoner is in federal custody-"

"And the so-called prisoner who you are referring to was deemed unable to stand trial due to psychological incompetency." The blonde doctor snapped. "I don't care who you are or what badges you wave in my face in a pathetic attempt at intimidation, my patient has rights."

"And the public has rights, too, lady. Get out of the fucking way-"

"If you wish to supersede my patient's autonomy there are official government channels and communications available for said request." Quinzel continued coldly, standing her ground before gathered throng of FBI agents on the PANDEMONIUM taskforce. "But until you have cleared the proper authorities, and have contacted the appointed attorney you are in direct violation of my patient's basic human rights, physician's orders and if you continue your disregard I will have you escorted immediately from the premises."

"The fuck with this-" An unfortunate and impatient agent reached forward to grab the doctor's slender wrist, only to be met with a judo move that sent him slamming to the tile, the offending arm twisted painfully behind his back. Seven FBI agents drew their weapons, shouting FREEZE! as the psychiatrist stood her ground over her fallen prey, the spiked heel of one purple stiletto piercing flesh and tearing muscle in the screaming man's lumbar region. And though the moment only lasted a second, the wickedest, most lusty of sneers twitched itself across her immaculate features.

…In that moment, Dr. Harleen Quinzel was anything but beautiful.

"That's assault of a federal officer, bitch." Heusinger growled, taking her into custody roughly, eying her lithe frame up and down. "Pretty little thing like you in handcuffs? Sweetheart, you just made my day."

"Documentable self-defense." The blonde sniffed, cold eyes glancing pointedly towards the security cameras. "And an excuse to take you insufferable pricks to court on a sexual harassment suit…" She smiled. "No, Officer, you just made _mine_."

* * *

**07: 23 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

_Dear Mr. Alfred, I got my GED yesterday so now I can go to college. I'm going to study to be a police officer like my mom. I think now she can be proud of me. I lied to you. On the bridge. I think you knew that. I think you lied to me, too. But thank you. I got really cold but that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me–JC_

As the head of the Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship Committee, Alfred Pennyworth had read many such letters expressing gratitude from graduates and scholarship recipients over the last ten years. Letters and pictures were framed, hung for display, trophies along the walls of the Legacy building that silently shouted for all to hear that a difference was being made here in Gotham City…

Too much of a difference. In warfare, one targeted strategic assets, bridges, roadways, shipping and supply routes. The Legacy was no exception. What she represented in the hearts of Gotham's people was hope. Prosperity. Unity. And now she was gone. Thomas Wayne's Legacy wasn't a building, not some physical construct of glass and steel spiraling into Gotham's skyline but an idea, a hope carried in the hearts of those who believed a in greater good, a better world-

A hope that died with so many children, teachers, public servants, parents and graduates who had come out to show their support. The Wayne family's longest standing servant cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles and read that letter again. Of all the notes sent by those touched by Thomas' compassion, this was the only that remained. The only, in ten years, that had been addressed not to the Legacy Foundation but specifically to him.

_January. The anniversary of Bruce's disappearance. He'd gone as usual to the Legacy, coming in early, leaving late, busy, busy, constantly busy lest he become idle and waste with grief. Young Master Wayne was still alive, he reminded himself daily, and it was his duty to find him, to bring him home. He owed Thomas and Martha all the strength and fortitude it would take to find the son that they had been robbed of, the son, Alfred Pennyworth reflected, that he had known and raised longer than they had…_

_The day was grey. Overcast. Evening had fallen swiftly. Wearily he maneuvered the xxx through the heavy traffic and slushy streets, inching slowly towards the narrows toll bridge-the very route that Rachel had taken. He made this trip, once a year, a pilgrimage from City Hall to that abandoned alleyway in the Narrows, the last place Bruce had been sighted. It was time for pause. Reflection. A time to mull over leads from the last year, question what he could have done differently, a time to wonder what it was that kept Bruce from coming home…_

_But then again, hadn't he said it himself? It was his parents' house. And that empty manor, like a mausoleum, had never been his home…_

_The light turned green, and Alfred shifted the car into a lower gear as it began the icy summit, engine whining in protest and wheels spinning through chunks and tracks of dirty, polluted snow and salty sludge. He'd have to have the automotive mechanic over to the garage. Add another protective coat to the paint and undercarriage. He reached the summit of the curved bridge, looked out at the hopeless expanse of grey sky, dark, treacherously cold undulating waters, the bleak, barren skyline of Gotham's Narrows in the distance. He felt suddenly old. Worn. Weak. The overcast sky hid the setting sun, hid the stars above, dampened light like it dampened his spirits…_

_And there. Suddenly he was braking, tires spinning tractionless to the tune of a thousand angry horns the lamborgini spinning nearly out of control but his SS honed reflexes-like his subconscious observation and steady calm-held her fast. In a second it was over, and the sportscar was parked half on, half off the curb, and as he climbed stiffly through the passenger side door angry shouts and litter pelted down in a wrathful hail. But Alfred Pennyworth didn't care about the integrity of the automobile's paint job or his heavy woolen coat or leather shoes as he began a military jog up the abandoned, ice-littered sidewalk. For there, there at the very summit a lone pedestrian stood, tightly gripping the rail and contemplating the ice-cold waters below-_

"_I say, young man-" He called, spectacles fogging over in the cold._

_The boy started. "I wasn't gonna jump!" Came his immediate and guarded protest. Hardly, Alfred thought, his trained eye regarding every detail of the boy's starving appearance, from his sickly shiver to the ratty holes in his gloves, frayed pants and soaking shoes. And now here they stood, an old man and a boy just coming into manhood, just feet from the other and yet worlds apart, one lacking nothing, the other, everything._

"_Of course not." Alfred said kindly. "I would presume no such thing."_

"_What do you want?" The boy stated, dark eyes accusing. Accusing him of judgment, suspicion, of a life lived without need or want, poverty or hardship, for being dressed as to stand comfortably in the cold without dreading its harsh bite…_

_For seven years, he had searched, busied himself, commemorated Bruce's memory through charity and scholarships. Driven across this bridge to the dangers and squalor that lurked on the other side, but no longer. There was a time to search, and a time to give up as lost, a time to realize that Bruce was a man now, not a lost child and would come home when he chose to, no sooner, no later. If he had failed as a guardian or a parent it was long ago, long ago when Bruce was still an impressionable child not an embittered, vengeful young man with a vendetta to pay. But standing here so close to where young master Wayne had disappeared from, Alfred Pennyworth determined not to fail so again._

"_My vehicle, it appears, has run out of oil. Quite careless of me, but I had hoped to reach a fueling station before it became an emergency-" Which was a lie, of course. No one with his mannerisms, dress or class of car would ever contemplate crossing to the Narrows for automobile repair, however minor. "And now it would seem I am forced to walk. But with the weather, and my heart…" The Butler continued worriedly, wool coat concealing a trim, fit military figure. "I'm afraid to carry something so heavy in this cold. You wouldn't by any chance be willing to assist an elderly gentleman in need?"_

_The boy sniffed. Wiped his running nose on the faded fabric of an overlarge hooded sweatshirt, his only protection from the whipping winds, dark eyes squinting and unsure. But begrudgingly he came. Walked with him two miles in the cold to the station to carry 3 quarts of Penzoil back up that hill, slipping and shivering in the ice and wet, steadying an old man in need towards the blinking flashers so far above. By the time they reached the car it had become utterly dark, the bridge lit by the sickly beams of passing cars, muted by a wet and drifting snow._

_Alfred popped the hood from the cab, and instructed the boy how to properly add the oil. He did it, too, shaking so bad he could barely hold it still and slopping oil all over the engine, that sweatshirt and his salt-encrusted shoes. "Is it gonna start?"He asked worriedly, face and hands now grubby and stained._

"_I'm positive it should." The Butler replied kindly, storing the extra oil in the boot. "And I am eternally grateful for your services. I beg your pardon, but I never introduced myself. I'm Alfred Pennyworth." He extended one gloved hand. The boy took it hesitantly, dark eyes guarded, exposed fingers frigid and clumsy, sticky with oil. "Jimmy." He said, teeth chattering. "Jimmy Connolly."_

_Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly_. That same voice rang from the laptop's speakers. Alfred Pennyworth turned the video off. Didn't need to watch it to fruition to know that massacre in Burma, after forty-some years, had again come back to haunt him. _Bloodshed, said the Lord God, will never cease from your house…

* * *

_

**07:38 EST**

**Arkham Asylum**

The FBI agents flew down the hall of Arkham Asylum, panic beginning to well in their throats. The Joker's cell had been empty. But that blonde bitch had only laughed and said they'd find him here-

"Jesus Christ!" Heusinger cried.

"Please tell me that's the fucking Joker," one of his men whispered. But it'd be too much to hope, right? That sicko was a sociopath, no way he'd take his life. Not like this. And if that angry mob had gotten to him…well, there was a reason Hitler didn't have a goddamn tombstone.

The body was strung up, tied to the ceiling by the neck, dangling pathetically in the center of the empty room. Heusinger mopped his forehead, dreading what was to come next. As he crossed the threshold, the FBI agent gagged on the lingering scent of death, stale urine and feces. Gingerly he tread to the hanging corpse.

Frank Boles. Arkham Security.

…Not the Joker. What a fucking surprise.

But damn, Heusinger thought surveying the body with pity as he radioed Murray, if he couldn't blame the poor bastard…

* * *

**07: 41 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

"Alfred, what's up?" Bruce asked, weariness replaced by sudden alarm. The SS veteran looked up from that missive, seeming for the first time to feel the weight of his years.

"Something on the cameras, sir." Alfred Pennyworth stated. "Something you need to see."

"_This is our, uh, newest patient."_ Rachel's killer said. "_Wake up wake up c'mon c'mon, smile for the birdie…the Battie…"_

Rage. Eating inside him like Tuesday night, those flames of gasoline the night the Joker killed Rachel licking at his flesh yet again. "When was this posted?" The Batman growled.

"It fell into the hands of the FBI last night." Alfred read emotionlessly from Lucius' notes. "But was posted in the public domain at midnight, August 22nd."

"Why didn't they know? Take action sooner!" The vigilante continued. "Surely they knew, _had to_ _know_ he'd escaped...he wasn't there. He was gone. How could _they_ not know-!"

"With all due respect, sir," The elderly man said, rising stiffly. "Perhaps you weren't there to tell them."

* * *

**07:53 EST**

**FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch**

Heusinger's voice had lost all it's cockiness. The AIC's somber, crisp tones steeled them instantly for the worse: "Sir, this thing is fucking real."

Edward 'Eddie' Nashton bowed his head as the Director sat heavily. "I feared as much," Murray whispered, taking a moment of silence as Heusinger asked for orders. What orders, Eddie wondered. Did you really need someone to tell you that your only job now was finding the fucking Joker-?

"Come back to base." Murray said wearily. "Get copies of all their security footage and come back to base. Not a word of this leaks." Then the Director picked up the red phone and dialed direct to HQ in Washington. "This is Murray, Gotham City Branch." The Director demanded. "Get POTUS on the line."

POTUS-? But didn't that mean-? Calderon? What would the President care if the Joker'd escaped? "What the Hell are you doing, Danny?" Eddie asked uncertainly.

Murray sighed, looking out the sheet-glass windows to the blazing sunrise spreading on the eastern horizon and towards the White House even farther away. "Trying to hold back the storm."

* * *

**08: 00 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

Commissioner James Gordon was a busy man. Being Commissioner was like being a king, and while not directly responsible for any one branch of GCPD law enforcement the Commissioner functioned as a dignitary, appointing lesser officials, amassing reports, and keeping the public educated and informed.

But the Legacy Bombing (for lack of better word) was something the United States hadn't dealt with since the likes of 9/11. And although there were contingency plans there was no way to strategically plan for every potential scenario, and no way to prepare the human heart and psyche for the terrors that ensured. So now, just like last year, Gordon was burdened under stress and exhaustion both physically and mentally, emotionally drained by the loss of so many loved ones, comrades, fellow soldiers and friends. Gotham City Public Services would never be the same.

…But mostly, just like last year-just like Monday-Jim Gordon found himself struggling on the slope of hope and despair, truth, justice, public safety and the greater good to find the world was never split into blackness and white, and that to service, protection and dishonesty had never been mutually exclusive constructs. In order to stop anarchy and urban war on this knife-edge of crisis and panic, the people had to feel safe, protected, had to feel as though the men protecting were capable and active...

And in order to make the people feel safe in this infinite crisis, they wanted him to lie. National Guard wanted him to go before the press and say he had a lead, that the GCPD were following a lead and would bring these yet unknown terrorists to justice, that the presence of National Guardsmen here was for their safety and protection and proved that their city was safe…

But if their city were safe, if the domestic powers that guarded it were secure, the military wouldn't be here. And any idiot with half a brain could see through it. So Calderon was censoring the media, newspapers, news stations, radio, television…and now wanted his aid bringing these 'hate-mongerers' and to justice. Had the audacity to claim they posed a danger and a threat to the rest of society…

Perhaps they did, Jim Gordon reflected. Perhaps they didn't. Perhaps they were simply good men who believed that true freedom and falsehood could never co-exist…and perhaps in his heart of hearts, Commissioner Gordon wished he still were one of them.

* * *

**08: 03 EST**

**Wayne Penthouse**

"I want everything you've got, Lucius." Bruce told him, pacing the Venetian tile. "Everything."

"I hacked Arkham's security systems last year like you requested." Fox's mild tones came through the encrypted phone. "And we installed our own private monitoring system around the Joker's cell. But unfortunately, Mr. Wayne, there was a malfunction in the power system-"

"And both systems were temporarily off-line." Bruce finished in an emotionless monotone.

"Yes, sir. Both systems rebooted shortly after the glitch on backup generators. "

"How blind are we." Bruce whispered. It was a statement, not a question.

"We're missing nearly a minute of film." Fox steeled himself. "But only the mounts directly on the building system were linked to emergency power. We're missing the outer perimeter. Square footage-wise, 65% of the campus went unaccounted for."

"Send it to me." The Batman growled. "I'll analyze it. All of it. I want to know who's responsible for this."

"Mr. Wayne, with all due respect, perhaps this is a job for the police." There were over 300 cameras on the Arkham campus, and over the 48 hours in question it was tens of thousands of individual hours of footage, each individual angle like a blind man configuring a jigsaw…"You don't have to do everything yourself, and this time you _can't_, sir-"

"Damn it, Fox, this time I have to!" The vigilante swore. "I can't trust the police, do you understand? Until I know, until we know who's responsible for the break and who covered it up I can't trust _anyone_-!"

* * *

**08: 46 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

Gordon sat behind his desk in disbelief, staring to the portraits of all the other men, some great, some not, who had once shared in this honored position. Looking to their stoic faces the Commissioner found himself wondering could any one of them have possibly foreseen this day…or was the human imagination, like human history, limited solely to the depravity of the times. "Yes, Governor." He finally sighed. "I understand your concern-"

"Sometimes I wonder if you do." Miller's voice was cool, but sad. "It's about saving lives, Jim. Doing whatever we have to to prevent more violence on our streets-"

Stop the Violence. Odd, wasn't it, that only five days ago those words meant equal access to education and job training. "You're asking me to authorize pre-emptive strikes against American citizens through an illegal interim measure-" It was the goddamned Patriot Act all over again, only this time brutal, enforced, and focused. It was power in its most corrupted form, power that should never have been granted the federal government, let alone a local police taskforce…

"No, Jim. You don't understand." Governor Stephanie Miller said wearily. "I'm not asking you. I'm ordering you. I declared Gotham City a crisis zone under jurisdiction of the US National Guard three days ago. Refusal to comply is defiance to a direct order, Jim. The only thing I'm _asking_ you is not to do anything stupid. Gotham needs you. I need you. The _people_ need you. Don't sacrifice our citizens for your goddamned ideas-"

But which exactly of his idealistic expectations she found so damning Jim Gordon would never know. At that moment the door to his office flew suddenly open and in the shock of the moment the cell phone slipped from his hand in agonizing slow motion towards the dirty tile below. The battery case exploded across the floor as the Stacy, the floor's secretary, let out an apologetic whimper. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon, I told them you were busy-"

But the Commissioner only stood wordlessly, body breaking into a cold and cheerless sweat. There were few people who had direct access to this building or office. Fewer still who would dare to trespass its autonomy…and not a one of those select elite could have anything less than catastrophic to say.

FBI Director Dan Murray was one of them.

* * *

**11: 00 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

**Emergency PANDEMONIUM joint taskforce hearing**

"…with regret to inform you that as of 0800 hours, the Joker has been declared missing from Arkham Asylum."

Outrage. Chaos. Disbelief and cries of dismay. FBI Director Dan Murray watched as a room of Gotham's finest exploded into sobs and shouts of betrayal. And if the news came hard to Gotham's trained public servants, he could only imagine the panic and chaos that would ensue were the announcement to go public.

…but with the eyes of a nation turned to this Madman instead of whatever current nation-state made a convenient culprit, perhaps they could stay the rising tide of prejudice and violence that threatened to tear the globe asunder. Chinese industry had taken a dive on Wall Street and now even while survivors were still being pulled from the wreckage and ashes people were already clamoring in DC and picketing for blood. God help them all if Pontius Pilot were in the White House, Murray reflected. China was on the UN security council, for God's sakes. Possessed goddamned tactical nuclear weapons that could level every city in the US in under 9 minutes…

…for which the only consolation remained that in Gotham's present state, not even the PRC would bother wasting the uranium.

"And why the fuck are we just now hearing about it-!" A strong, authoritative voice carried above all others. Gwen Paltron, Murray decided even before his eyes found her figure. The woman was unforgettable.

"Because my office was only recently informed, Detective." He addressed her wearily, motioning the room for silence. "As of 2400 hours August 201st, a complaint was lodged against Youtube username Arewehavingfunyet for excessively violent images. Internet Taskforce declared the video a fake, but routed the video to us for analysis. Again, due to the video's quality of resolution Mr. Nashton could not rule out the authenticity of the video until the Joker's whereabouts were verified. And at 0800 hours this morning, it was discovered the patient was not present on the campus premises."

Sighs. Tears. Blank stares and harrowed faces. "The National Guard as been tasked with the preservation of civil and military order at this time." The Police Commissioner added, his mild voice, though strained with grief, served to still the tumultuous murmurs echoing through the hall. All eyes, all ears, and all hearts were now fully focused towards the platform. "Mr. Murray and I now believe it is the sole responsibility of our organizations to take care of this threat."

Again the FBI Director spoke. "Containment protocol-"

"_Containment protocol_?" Paltron raged again. "You can't _contain_ the fucking Joker, Danny!"

"It's dishonest not to inform the media." Came the gruff growl of Detective Lawless. "You have any idea how fucking dangerous that might be? If people find out through third party sources and not from us? They'll never trust this government again-"

Gordon looked to Murray, and on the teleconference screen Governor Stephanie Miller sighed. "He's right." Gordon repeated. Of course they were right, Murray knew. It's what the Joker wanted, anticipated even: _Don't go to the police, don't trust the police…they might put up a good fight-tuh, but in the end they're what you call uh, powerless._ They couldn't afford to play into this bastard's hand.

"Gotham has the right to know." Detective Lawless growled again. "Goddamnit Dan, _parents_ have the right to know-"

"I would ordinarily agree with you, Detective," the Governor extended from the monitor. "But given the circumstances-"

"What fucking circumstances?" Paltron's clear voice rang. "What else aren't you people telling us?"

The FBI director sighed. "The video content has already been leaked," Murray explained. "And given the timing of its posting we believe this threat goes far beyond the realm of Gotham City. While Homeland Security and the Military are implicating the Chinese, our organizations are in agreement that it is more than possible this man is responsible for Monday's events and if so, it is likely he had access to military arsenal-"

"Likely?" Paltron snorted. "Dead fucking _certain, _Danny! RPG's aren't standard issue for riot control-!"

"Is it possible we're giving this whack-job too much credit?" Another GCPD officer spoke up. He was pudgy and pale, looked more like a technician than a cop walking the beat. "He's a fucking genius, okay? And he's escaped custody before. Who's to say in the stress of the moment he's not simply done it again?" Milton, Fred Milton, Murray read the name badge from the stage. "The guy's a complete _sociopath_. He'd love for us to believe he had something to do with this-"

"Milton's right." Paltron voiced. "What was the content of the video? How do we know for certain this isn't simply circumstantial? Guarangoddamntee you the Joker had a contingency plan-"

"I affirm with Mr. Murray that this threat is legitimate." Gordon said, voice tremoring. He found he couldn't bring himself to look into her blazing blue eyes even across the conference room, couldn't bring himself to say it. "The specificity of the video content necessitates it could only have been filmed between 1700 hours and the time of its posting." He finished.

"But what the fuck is it?" Paltron pressed.

"Another graphic execution of a high profile target in civil service." Murray answered reluctantly in the Commissioner's sudden silence, his eyes now sweeping the room filled with FBI and GCPD personnel. Even Homicide. Montoya, Allen, Paltron and Lawless-Christ, what a shitty way to find out your partner's been killed…Hell, even Jack McClain from AFT was staring up at him with mingled curiosity and dread. "A Detective from GCPD Homicide."

In the back row of the assembly, Detective Aaron Lawless turned a sickly shade of pale.

* * *

**11:21 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises**

**R and D Department**

"_And where do you work, Jimmy?" The Clown asked with feigned curiosity. "Or are you…uh, unemployed?"_

"_Police-" The boy made a gagging noise, the rest of his words drowned out. His chest rose higher in agonized gasps, shuddering then falling still._

"_A police officer?" The Joker insisted, a wild light in that wicked grin. "A Gotham City police officer?"The boy nodded, face wrenched in pain. "Hmmm…a police officer." Rachel's killer sung. "That uh, that changes things."_

"Mr. Wayne?" Fox approached the younger man cautiously. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes." The Batman rasped, and the CEO recognized that voice and that mask of rage. It wasn't his employer who was speaking, it was the vigilante, the masked hero, Gotham's Dark Knight. But it was Bruce Wayne who spoke next. "Go home. See Nichelle and Mikeala. Spend time with Darius."

"That I will, Mr. Wayne." The elderly gentleman said, that shift in personality, like the change of background on the numerous monitors, not escaping his scrutiny: Thomas II and Martha Wayne at the Legacy Foundation's annual leukemia luncheon. The last official press picture taken by Legacy photographers of the couple together alive, not 9 hours before their tragic demise. Mrs. Wayne was already wearing that string of pearls in anticipation of the night…it was all so strangely foreboding and yet fitting, Fox finally decided. In death, like life, she never once left his side.

* * *

**11:30 EST**

**Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building**

**GCPD Dual Headquarters**

**Emergency PANDEMONIUM joint taskforce hearing**

As Co-chairman of the PANDEMONIUM taskforce and Police Commissioner of Gotham City, Jim Gordon had been briefed. Had even watched the video in its entirety in his office in growing dread, horror, and loss. But it could no more prepare him for its screening here in an impersonal board room on a projection screen like a goddamned movie theater, the Joker starring in his own horrific home video…

"_Might want to write this down, Commissioner. Just in case."_

…and it was, Gordon reflected numbly, everything that twisted madman could have ever hoped for. It was a message for Gotham, yes. For children and students and parents…but it was also a _personal _message, addressed just to him.

_August. It was hot. Stuffy. Sweltering. His interviewee for the morning hadn't showed, thirty-nine city blocks were out of power after a 27 car pile up spilled off the freeway and into a power station and now old people were dying for lack of AC and the media claimed it was somehow his fault for not implementing harsher speeding penalties when anyone with any knowledge about civil issues would know that the state highway belonged to the jurisdiction of the State Police not the City even if the roadway happened to cross into the City Limits. But more so than any of these annoyances was the message on his phone from Nora. ME's office had what looked like another Zsasz killing and every hour the Killer was loose more lives were in danger and some small voice in the back of his head laughed like that sinister Clown saying what happened once could happen again…_

_And in the months since Dent's passing, the Batman had gone silent. Missing. Or dead. No news is good news, the Commissioner forced himself to think. He hasn't contacted you because nothing has changed. Stick with the plan. Hold course. He's still out there, keeping an eye on things._

_At least he hoped, prayed, feared with all his soul. Part of being Commissioner was knowing all his limitations, weaknesses, and blindspots. How power ever managed to corrupt or inflate public officials Gordon would never understand. He had power, yes, but with it came the responsibility and worry and fear of the office and everything-regardless of contingency plans-that could still go wrong._

_"Stacy, can you forward all calls to the cell? I'm going to head home early. Eat dinner with Barb and the kids."_

_The Secretary looked up from the flat screen Mac monitor and wireless keyboard-the new MCU's hardware had been enriched to state of the art technology largely by a WE donation-and what looked like an overflowing excel spreadsheet with what he resigned himself to was most likely his schedule for the upcoming week. "But Mr. Gordon-" The young girl protested, "He's been waiting to see you all day."_

_Gordon blinked. "Who?"_

_Stacy ruffled through the onscreen day-planner. "Jimmy Connolly."_

_"His appointment was at 9 am." Gordon recollected, remembering Allen's disappointment that the young man hadn't shown. Not like him, the Detective had insisted._

_"The visitation log shows he got here at 8:30am." Stacy noted, blinking her large eyes. "And Mr. Gordon, he's really, really nice." The 23 year-old receptionist continued in an almost pleading tone that any father with a young daughter could recognize instantly as wheedling. Nice? Perhaps. But five years with BB had taught him that the correct English translation would be more along the lines of cute._

_"Why wasn't he sent to my office?"_

_"Well, I was gonna have him sit out here with me," Stacy said with the slightest pink blush of embarrassment on her heart-shaped face, "but Fred and Eugene said they'd take him to the lounge-"_

_"Fred and Eugene?" Jim asked sharply. "Fred Milton?"_

_"Yeah!" She exclaimed. "From Homicide." His tired feet and exhausted brain let out a groan. It was just like those two, he thought, too tired to be amused or even angry. Just like Milton and Bradley to take a prospective candidate not to the visitor's lounge where his name would be called but hole him up somewhere in the interrogation block. If either of them put as much effort into their work as their mutual interest in practical jokes, they'd have made Sergeant already._

_So against every instinct in his aching body, Gordon found himself asking for the young man's file. And Stacy beamed. Thank-and curse-God, Gordon thought tiredly as he perused its contents, for little girls…_

_Initial impressions were everything in the interview process. He did his best to put the anger and resentment of the day aside, to give his own attitude and tired mind a clear slate and not let the prejudices of the day's hardships affect the outcome. This was someone else's career at stake. Something Commissioner James Gordon took very, very seriously. Why he purposefully scheduled interviews for the beginning of the day-_

_Room 13. Gordon steeled himself, opened the door and-_

_-and a small, fuzzy dog and what appeared to be a disembodied hand greeted him from the desktop. He blinked in surprise. No. It was a mop of dark curls and an outstretched arm. Sprawled on the desk next to a tepid paper cup of department coffee. For nearly thirty seconds, Gordon just stared in shock. While he, Commissioner James Gordon, spent all day in a panicked frenzy with the weight of responsibility of a city on his shoulders, this Jimmy Connolly had spent the afternoon napping-napping!-in the interrogation grid._

_Oh, the irony and unfairness of it all, Gordon thought, shaking away bitterness and exhaustion. He even managed a bemused chuckle before scraping back the metal folding chair. At the sound Connolly started from sleep, yawned slowly and stretched, then blinked once groggily before leaping to an almost comedic attention complete with a startled yelp of 'Mr. Gordon, sir-!'._

_Two banged knees, a spilt coffee cup, a soggy mess of what had once been a prospective employee personnel file and an embarrassed apology later, Gordon found himself shaking hands with the young man and finally taking a seat. He tried to be objective. He'd already done his damned best not to laugh, and had impressed himself so far with keeping a straight and serious face. But there was something else. Something still wrong-_

_"Are you feeling nervous, Mr. Connolly?" Gordon asked the fidgeting candidate. Were it not for the clean drug test in his now coffee soaked personnel file the Commissioner would swear Connolly needed a fix._

_"Nervous?" Connolly asked with alarm, fingers drumming on the table top and knees bouncing noticeably. "No, um, not really. It's just that, well, you know, all I've had to eat today's been 12 cups of coffee and I really, really have to pee." That young face was now split with what was either a groan or grin of sheepish embarrassment and apology._

_The Commissioner smiled and nodded once to the door. When you were already eight hours late, what was the harm in postponing a few minutes more? "You came back." Gordon offered with mild humor when the grateful young man returned from the restroom. "I half expected you not to."_

_Connolly shrugged awkwardly, taking the opposite seat. "To be honest, Mr. Gordon, I more than half considered it. But I think Mr. Allen would've shot me."_

_Gordon chuckled. "Well, Mr. Connolly, I have to say I was most impressed by Crispus' recommendation."_

_"Really?" The boy sat up hopefully. "What'd he say?"_

_"Nothing he said." Gordon admitted. "It's the fact he wrote it. In 20 years of working for the Police Academy, Crispus Allen has written one letter to recommend a student and only one. And it just so happens to be in your file." The young man shrugged, but a slight pinkish flush of pride crept over his boyish cheeks._

_"He offered to buy me a beer, but since I don't drink I asked him to write that instead."_

_Gordon nodded politely. "And how did you manage that?"_

_"I arrested him."_

_"Pardon?" Gordon asked with sudden alarm._

_"Fake arrest, don't worry Mr. Gordon. It was at training games in Quantico, you know, top recruits from different academies. We had two weeks to solve this homicide they rigged up with sets and actors and everything, with lab results in real time, you know, a simulation. Anyways, the end of the week came and none of us had anything. Turns out the exercise was more about teaching us about stress and teamwork the hard way, and they really rigged it to be impossible to solve. So we go to debriefing and Mr. Allen singles me out-you know, to pick on-and I ask him if we're supposed to treat this exactly like a real crime scene. He starts going off on how if we'd done that from day one we might've caught our perp. So I arrest him." The boy grinned. "Because all week long he'd been asking us leading questions about the case that only a witness or the murderer could know, and that's obstruction of justice at the very least. So I mirandize him." Connolly laughed. "And the whole assembly just goes dead quiet."_

_"And what did Crispus do?"_

_"Well, it'd been a really bad week for everyone and I honestly thought he was going to punch my face in. Instead he looks at me and says 'Pint-size, in 20 years of teaching that's about the-well, in so many words-stupidest thing I've ever heard.' I thought I was going to be expelled or fired or whatever, and then he goes 'And unfortunately for the rest of you, he's absolutely right.' "_

_"An amusing story," Gordon nodded, straightening his glasses to peruse the coffee-stained file once more. It was all a ruse, of course, but a tradition, and a long held one at that. One simply didn't announce these things without creating some sort of suspense. He counted to sixty. Then with slow, calculated deliberation Gordon sighed, closed the folder, and folded his hands. Jimmy Connolly looked just about to explode with mingled curiosity and dread. _

_"Well, Mr. Connolly," The Commissioner began as the boy straightened expectantly in his chair, "it is now with my sincerest regret and deepest apologies that I must inform you that by recommendation of the Internal Affairs Personnel Committee, and on behalf of project WATCHDOG-"_

_Crushed. Disappointment washed through young man's dark eyes like thunderheads in an oncoming storm. And that absolute inability to lie, that open, energetic sincerity was what sold him more than anything else. He'd been questioning before but he was damn sure now. Welcome aboard, Mr. Connolly…_

_"-that you have of this moment officially assumed duty as an officer of the GCPD with the assignment of Homicide Detective." James Gordon finished with a broad smile, extending his hand. "Please tell me you can work overtime."_

"_I was nervous hiring him, you know? 167 positions open, and he applies for _all _of them. I couldn't _not_ give him an interview.._." And now Monday's words, like the Joker's a year ago, came back to haunt him: _Does it depress you, commissioner? To know just how alone you really are? Does it make you feel responsible for Harvey Dent's current predicament?_

Your People. Psychological warfare. It wasn't his fault. These men were heroes, heroes who had willingly placed themselves before the public, taken an oath to serve and protect, become soldiers and warriors…

Commissioner Loeb. Judge Surillo. Rachel Dawes…and Jimmy Connolly.

_YES_-! Right or wrong, the words were still true. They were his men. And when they were struck down it was his fault, and his alone. If only he hadn't hired him, listened to Dawes said he was too young, too inexperienced, too naïve, if only he had gotten an ambulance sooner, Detective Jimmy Connolly might still be alive…

Lawless. What must this mean for Lawless…And Paltron. He knew a gut-wrenching pang for Paltron like that terrifying moment James Jr. and the Batman had gone tumbling over the ledge…when Harvey Dent lay broken and dead in the ashes and soot and the Joker had won…when he accepted lies as truth for the greater good and blurred the line between right and wrong, good and evil failed as a father/husband/commissioner all for the sake of a foolish dream…

Watching his ex-partner reach a trembling hand to the screen, even Jim Gordon missed that there were two messages sent in the Joker's most recent broadcast. One of fear, one of hope.

"_You're. Not. God." _The young man died. In excruciating agony. But he died fighting until the very end. The Joker may have killed him…

…but the Joker didn't _win.

* * *

_

**11:43 EST**

**Wayne Enterprises**

**R and D Department**

Angels of Mercy. Stop the Violence. It wasn't difficult to comprehend why the bastard chose the victim he did. Those two tragic events were scarred into Gotham's psyche so strongly that it was a part of her soul. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, those two Saints and strangers who meant so much to everyone but to him would always and only be parents, parents he barely had the chance to know except as a young boy, too naïve to know them as anything more than mother and father…

And Sisters of Mercy. Burning and taking 43 innocent children with it into ash. He hadn't been here when it happened, saw only the rage and grief and doubt on impersonal headlines and Chinese language programming and it only fueled his desire for revenge on the corrupt, and justice for the helpless…No, to him the real tragedy had continued to be his own. Wondering around Asia in the criminal underworld, deadset on a weregild of revenge and justice, in learning to know thine enemy before returning to avenge them by cleaning the streets, getting rid of the scum that walked the streets they once walked, laughed, lived, loved and bled upon. He'd been too busy with this dream of becoming, of being Batman to realize the stark truth set before him. His father's Legacy wasn't in the grand projects, the justice system, even the tram that still ran for free on cheap, clean energy for all of Gotham's citizens…

"_Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Wayne." Lucius' even tones woke him from a rather pleasant sleep in the boardroom. Bruce woke, yawning, wiping what appeared to be drool from the corner of his mouth and the table top, slightly chagrined to find the Trust committee had long since left._

"_What's up?" The world's richest man asked groggily._

"_A legal issue. Regarding the Legacy."_

"_Isn't that what the Legal department's for?" Bruce yawned._

"_Quite, Mr. Wayne. Quite." Fox agreed, lips twitching into an amused smile._

"_What's the issue?"_

"_Stop the Violence. The Ad campaign, at least." Lucius already had the photo up on the ipad, as if he needed remembering. With as much as that damned picture had been in the news even the most illiterate would recognize it. "We bought rights to the photograph in April, if you remember, from TV18 studios."_

"_Yeah, I remember. You asked me if we could spend $50,000 dollars on a simple picture for an advertising campaign"_

"_And you informed Mr. Pennyworth and I as Director of the Wayne Legacy Foundation and CEO of Wayne Enterprises we could spend as much money on 'photographs' for whatever reason we goddamned pleased," Fox said, keeping his face miraculously straight. "Provided we introduced you to the models."_

_Bruce laughed. "I did say that, didn't I?"_

"_I do so recall." Fox finally smiled. "The legal issue with the photograph is it's a still. As a motion picture it would be considered property of the Associated Press, but unfortunately for us and the News Agency this picture was captured, sold and published without a signed photo release by the subject."_

"_They sold us something they didn't have rights to." Bruce chimed, suddenly understanding. "And instead of going after the company that's at fault, now these people are just following the money." God, he hated people like that. And juries usually agree with them, even if they were dead wrong. The rich had more than enough money, sure. What harm was there in spreading it around to every sob-story Sally that came before a judge? Right, Bruce thought darkly._

"_Don't we have…I don't know. Secretaries and stuff to deal with this sort of thing?" The billionaire asked disinterestedly._

"_Quite, Mr. Wayne. But I'm afraid in this instance he only wants to talk to you." The CEO informed him. "My counsel is to simply see what he wants and to take a Legal attaché with you."_

_Legal attaché? His ass. "Fox, in case you haven't noticed, after last year, attorneys don't really scare me anymore."_

"_No, Mr. Wayne. I had noticed. And that's what concerns me. You see, not all of us have your natural talent for avoiding paperwork." Lucius amended with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I'll have Legal fax you the photo release."_

_Bruce Wayne meandered down to the legal affairs department, stopping only to give another putting pointer to Fox's brunette secretary along the way to get into character. A few solid tips and a slap on the ass later, he was on his way. Over the last two years he'd learned there was nothing quite like a star-struck, blushing woman to stroke any man's ego. He was now a billionaire playboy born with a platinum spoon in his mouth (face it, silver was the standard of a previous milenium), who expected everything handed to him before he even asked and who the public expected nothing more of than to make controversial and outlandish headlines once every couple weeks or so. I am Bruce Wayne, Bruce mentally rehearsed as he threw open the doors, world-class jack ass and womanizer extraordinaire…_

_Connolly was smaller than he expected. Bordering the line between boyishly slender and just plain scrawny, pale skin and dark hair with that flawless face and those feminine eyelashes that made him so damn impossible looking. That image wasn't photo shopped, was the first rational thought through his mind, followed quickly by a second: how old was this Kid, exactly-?_

"_You're uh…J. Connolly?" Bruce read from the sheet as he sat down. "Guess there's no need to introduce myself," He gestured with a nod to the larger than life portrait behind the desk. I am Oz, something wicked and juvenile chuckled within him, the great and powerful…_

"_You don't remember me, do you?" The Kid asked quietly._

"_You're the Kid from that one Ad campaign. No More Violence, right?" The Playboy asked._

"_Something like that, Mr. Wayne. But we've met before. Miss Dawes introduced us." Miss Dawes. It took Bruce an agonizing eternity to realize those two words meant Rachel. "At your birthday party."_

"_Hell, and here I thought that cop uniform was real." Bruce forced a laugh, extolling in this carefree, drunken alter ego that was impervious to pain and emotion, stoic in even Rachel's death- "Don't tell me, you only wear it for parties-"_

"_You don't remember." The young man continued, ignoring the slant._

_The playboy shrugged casually. "I was probably drunk-"_

"_You were." The boy answered emotionlessly._

"_What's this about? I sweet talk your sister?" The billionaire grinned, then turned stony. "What do you want?"_

"_I told you I admired the Batman. Wanted to be like him. You laughed in my face and called me a ridiculously adorable worthless piece of shit. Asked me what difference would one more idealistic cop make compared to the Batman." Oh, yes. Bruce remembered. Fear Night. And he'd been forced to do everything he could to insult anyone possible. For all Ducard's faults, it was odd, wasn't it, that he'd had the humanity to spare the party guests before releasing the Crane toxin with no heed to innocent collateral-_

"_What are you looking for? An apology? Go ahead. Sue my ass." The billionaire commanded coldly. "We'll take your picture out of the ads and the press will load crap all over you, Kid, and you'll be back to nightshifts and parking tickets. You don't scare me. You can't threaten me. You can sue all you want to and I'll pay it without ever feeling it." He took a long pull at an iced Columbian coffee. "Kid, I'm Bruce fucking Wayne and your dick isn't big enough to get in a pissing fight with my last name, let alone this company."_

_But Connolly was unperturbed. "I was too scared to answer then, but before I let you use my 'ridiculously adorable piece of shit' face for your publicity stunt I wanted to say this to yours: the only difference between cops and the Batman is when we go out to fight crime, we don't get to hide behind a mask."_

_SHIT._

_How the Hell did this Kid know-? And if he didn't, if it was just a insult then he had but a split-second to speak or he'd betray it himself-! __"Yeah, that's all." The playboy snorted, heart racing under that cool facade. "That and some muscle mass. C'mon Kid, either sign the damn paper or leave. I've got a 9 o'clock tee time, you know?"_

"_You're a drunk and a disgrace." Jimmy Connolly blurted bluntly, and Bruce felt his face grow suddenly hot. "You don't even know the name of your own charity organization. I don't think you care if you're doing this city any good, you're just evading taxes. I don't care if you use the picture or not. I don't want any money from it. I don't want any money from you. But I can't let my face and your name be affiliated without letting you know what I think."_

_Rage. Anger. Shame. Guilt. The Batman could handle rejection, but to Bruce Wayne this slap on the face was too unexpected, cut far too deep through this carefree mask to his exposed heart. In three years of posing, no one had ever stood up to him. Called him down. Treated him as anything but an untouchable celebrity to be gossiped over and admired, given him everything he after wanted or asked for, hadn't dared to refuse this VIP anything…_

…_No one but Rachel._

_Bruce stifled that howl of grief and loss to put that drunken, who-gives-a-shit smirk on with more effort than it had ever cost him before. "You done?" The world's richest man and People's most eligible bachelor asked coolly._

"_Yeah." The young man said sadly as his left hand penned a neat cursive across the three pages. "I think we are." A small, boyish hand pushed the WE folder across the marble table-top. "It's Stop the Violence, Mr. Wayne. The name of your father's charity organization. It's Stop the Violence."_

_Even under this drunken guise, even under the Batman's stoicism, it stung. And it took every ounce of self-control as his vision tunneled and heart thundered not to release that cry of venom and rage and pounce on his tormenter to pound that famous face into unrecognizable pulp._

"_My Dad might only be a City Cop, Mr. Wayne," That same small voice rang from the direction of the door. "But I'd still rather die than disappoint him. So if you can't spare a thought for the people in Gotham, at least try to think of him. "_

_And he did. Every damn day he did. And every damn day he doubted, wondered, questioned if Thomas and Martha Wayne could even see or hear at all, and sentient still, were there a God in Heaven and human souls with Him, whether it was pride or shame they might feel for both their sons: the Drunkard and the Dark Knight._

Bruce Wayne stood. Sighed. Wiped tears from his blood-shot eyes as he looked on that picture of his murdered parents. It was about the _people_, he realized. The people he'd so long forgotten in trying to protect them from themselves that they had ceased to have souls, songs, stories of their own. And in that blindness and thirst for revenge he had failed. Failed again, failed to be brave at that theater and led to his own parents death, failed to stand before a jury of peers at Chill's parole hearing to request real justice for his parents, failed to kill the man he'd vowed to…

But mostly he'd failed for even trying, even contemplating, for growing up and becoming a man and still not understanding his father's Legacy and compassion. Those jurors, the ones who let Chill walk free only to be slaughtered seconds later…Rachel, Alfred…they had understood. They had known what he had not: Thomas and Martha Wayne would never have desired anyone to remain in punishment upon seeking true redemption, not even their own killer.

There was good, Bruce reflected. Goodness and mercy and forgiveness to be found in the world of men. There was a soldier of Her Majesty's government who had killed both in her name and in cold blood, a mercenary who became private security to a young boy and when his masters had died, when the money stopped flowing he continued still, raising the child as if he were his own, never giving up hope that he might one day realize goodness, regardless of the cost. There had been a District Attorney brave enough to face down not only a dangerous world of criminals and be killed for her heroism but had the courage and strength of heart to strike a friend…There was redemption, and no man was beyond it. He may reject it, deny it, choose never to recant or repent but it was not the blackness of another man's soul or hardness of heart that mattered, but his own. When the Joker was falling, falling, plummeting to his death on the cement so far below laughingcacklingscreeching...even if he used this second chance for a greater evil, it was that choice, that potential, his ability still to choose to do good or evil that mattered, nothing more.

And with that reflection a burden was lifted from his shoulders, one he had carried so heavy upon his heart for so long he had ceased to remember he bore it at all: the stain of guilt was washed away. The blood could never be on his head. Regardless of how many that madman would torture and kill, the chaos the city might plunge to, the darkness and corruption found in the panicking hearts of Gotham, those shadows and threads of doubt and despair…that guilt was a lie. And he, Bruce Wayne, could never allow himself to be deceived. Those innocent lives, the future victims like this young officer yet to come…could never be his fault. They were the price of goodness, of redemption, of hope and free will. Of being human, and such was their cost. No more, no less. And good men, true men, men like Alfred, his father, this Detective Connolly…they knew this, and were willing and ready to bear it.

And understanding this, finally knowing, after all these years the bitter and terrible truth that forgiveness and mercy were strength not weakness Bruce Wayne knew his father's to be a dark and dangerous dream. One that many good men, his parents and Rachel but only three, had died for…

…and would continue to. As long as goodness held any hope or humanity, she precluded the annihilation of evil. It wasn't that men were instinctively or even inherently good, but that they all deserved the chance to _try.

* * *

_

**AN: Story-arc continued next chapter.**


	33. Justitia

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas:_ to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

_**AN: Rated M for language, grisly crime scene and sexual references.**_

**While the Kyle sisters have been mentioned and may or may not become key players in the plot, Maggie Kyle will NOT appear as Sister Zero in Ernestina. (And for AZWoodbomb: from now on I most solemnly pledge to always spell Salazar Meroni as such. That is of course, if I remember; and unless, of course, I forget…)**

**

* * *

**

**Friday, August 30****th**

**21:12 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

_Meroni._

I've been a fool. Distracted. Enraged. Too quick to kill. My Angel is dead, and I have both nothing and everything to lose.

Sisters of Mercy and Salazar Meroni? Sure. These goons could be here for a late night confessional. Entirely possible. But even if Gotham City wasn't on military lockdown it'd be bullshit. Only one reason a mob boss would risk the shoot first ask questions later mantra of the National Guard: money. And lots of it. These motherfuckers are just like Ugly and his cronies, taking advantage the wounded and weak in their time of utmost need. There's something going on here. Something big. Something bad. Something corrupt, and that monster within me smells blood in the water.

Then it hits me. Cold and fast. That clenched up feeling in my gut. My veins go cold. That note. That note in Angel's Bible…it was from a Maggie.

_If you have lost your faith in me, please don't lose faith in God. Read this and I think you will find the answers that you seek. Love, Maggie._

…Maggie. Maggie-fucking-Kyle. Bitch. Idiot. How did you not see-!

Heart beats and breath coming faster now. I wheel. Turn my bloodshot eyes upwards to the surrounding walls, all my thoughts _myhopesmyprayers_ resting with a silent Sister somewhere within. Maggie Kyle, I've never met you. But you were a sister and a friend to my Angel when he had no one. Did you hold him, love him, kiss him as a sister when his mother couldn't-?

And in this moment, when all is lost, the love of my life left me, Art is dead, Lawless and I forever sundered, when my son-my Angelmyeverything!-is taken from me, I find I have a final hope left: Angel's sister, Maggie Kyle. Raped six years ago this November, avenged by a sister. Stan Shillings took a shot to the chest, ruptured his vena cava. Bled out in a dark alley while looking to score. Selina Kyle confessed on the courthouse steps in front of a media circus. Case closed. But to this day no one knows how Shillings got to her inside the protection of those stone walls…

No one but Salazar Meroni.

No one but the Judas priest who sold her body to that mobster's henchman.

…No one but _me_. And I'm going to find out who. I'm going to find out why. And I'm going to listen to the bastard take his last, rattling breath and the hell I send him to will seem like Heaven after what I've done. I buried my grief with my son. There is room now only for vengeance.

Zsasz was right: death _is_ an art. And I'm going to paint a fucking masterpiece. I'll turn Gotham City into a canvas so sanguine not even the rain can wash it away and I will make them see. I will make them understand. All the apathetic masses in their mediocrity and blindness, all the fattened businessmen and dirty politicians that drive the filth and corruption of urban sprawl I will wake from their stupor and selfishness and they will see justice. They will know fear. I'm caked in mud and rain and tears and the blood of my son's killers. Now I thirst for his sister's tormenters' as well. Selina Kyle might have killed her rapist, but I want the motherfuckers who put him on the scent. And I don't care how high or holy their titles might be. Don't care how messy this gets, won't hesitate to spill blood like Pyrrhus on the flagstones before the altar…

Any Priest who deals with murders and lets a rapist walk free deserves communion the god he really serves; and the demons of Lust, Greed, and Bloodshed are waiting for him just as impatient as I am.

But I have to plan. Have to know how deep, how nasty this shithole gets…but how? Think, bitch, think-! I close my eyes. Press my fingers to my aching temples. It's there, there in the back of my mind masked by rage and hate: Mafia taskforce. Murray. Dan Murray will know. He'll know faces. Names. Locations. Meroni can't take a piss without the FBI knowing about it. Whatever la casa nostra's got going in Gotham City Dan Murray will know. Murray and that Nashton…

_You ready to join the apocalypse, boys?_

I walk the perimeter. Hide. I wait three hours in the mud and wet. Long after the bell tolls midnight the bastards leave. From the shivering shadows and cold I memorize their license plate and faces…

I will not forgive. I will not forget.

* * *

**Saturday, August 31****st**

**07:21 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

Morning. Pale fingers of dawn crease the sky and birds sing softly from within the protective walls of their medieval sanctuary. Thick branches of oak and willow poke their boughs high above the fortified, encircling stone. For a moment the shimmering sunlight lingers above the wreckage, for a fleeting second children's laughter flutters on warbling birdsong.

_Angel-?_

But the moment is quickly past. I sit. Stretch. Groan with the stiffness and cold that seeps from the ground into my aching bones. I'm not vengeance. Not fury. Not even a woman with a fucking grudge to pay. Today I'm simply old. Old and damn stiff. My right knee is locked and rigid, and I must massage it to stand. Lawless was right: I need to rest. Need to stay off it. Need to give it time to heal.

And I will. I'll take the bus back to Stalton's car. Go back to my bolt-holes in the Narrows and plan. Research. Do reconnaissance. Sketch my masterpiece. Stalk from the shadows and bide my time…

…After I see Maggie.

* * *

**07:59 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

Sisters of Mercy soup kitchen. And all the drunks, all the homeless, all the junkies and their piss-assed smell of garbage, pot and sewage crowd the cobblestone walkway leading up to the wrought iron gates. How they Hell the Sisters can stand it day in and day out is far beyond me. But the bell tolls eight, and again the Church opens her waiting arms like liberty to Gotham's tired, her poor, her huddled masses of the hungry and sick.

I join the crowd, my ragged clothes and hair fitting well in with their neglect and despondency: Gotham has vomited her filth and reek into the immaculate stone courtyard of Sisters of Mercy. Behind me there's a deranged man with crossed eyes and a vacant expression leaking drool in his grizzly, food-stained beard. Two pregnant teenagers. An old, bent woman in rags who can barely stand. Three freshly-shaven, muscular men in prison sweats that scream parolees to every cop worth his salt. And amongst us all run a throng of young, starved children with dirty faces and dirty hands.

We stand for what seems hours as the sun rises overhead, the morning air turning from crisp and clear to thick and full of gasoline and moisture. Rays of light burn through pockets of fog and pollution and eyes tear and water in the unending bright. The line trickles on. But as more are fed and filled more still appear, and the queue stretches ever on behind us.

Finally it's our turn. I cross under that dark door, only to find there are words etched in the centuries old stone: _Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, __because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd__. _Turning, I survey them again with softer heart. My disgust at their blind acceptance of their misery and mundane existence turns slowly to cool pity. I see anonymity. Hopelessness. Hunger, need and want. They are scattered. Divided. Leaderless…it is little wonder minds like Meroni's and the Joker's find them such easy prey.

* * *

**08:56 EST**

******Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**  


Steaming hot porridge, thin milk and watery orange juice await us all like a complimentary breakfast at a filthy hospital or a nursing home. And I feel guilty, cast a surreptitious glance at the pressing crowd and the long line of hungry waiting. The serving Sister mistakes my unease for hurt.

"What brings you here this morning to the Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy?"

A wry grimace. "I need some answers."

…Don't we all.

* * *

**09:01 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

The Sisters offer to sit with me. I ask for Maggie Kyle. Say her story has touched me, I wish to speak with her. They smile knowingly. Wring my hand. Bring me out of the dark kitchen and sit me alone in the garden for a moment of peace and reflection while they fetch her, as they have for countless thousands of others…

But I find no peace here. All my hopes lie now in death.

* * *

**09:10 EST**

**Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**

Alone.

Without solace I ponder again her empty words: _If you have lost your faith in me. _Maggie Kyle. Age 19. Chose instead of pressing charges, instead of identifying her attacker and sending him to prison to imprison herself instead. The Pope called it forgiveness…

Most of the public called it cowardice. And for six long years I've said the same. But I never worked sex crimes. Gordon did. Said it was common for women not to seek out their attackers. Spare themselves the indecency of the medical exam, the report, the abuse and shame they'd face at trial. _She's just a kid_, Gordon said. But I couldn't see it. I watched Marines take bullets at that age. Rode convoys through fucking Pakistan. I was a woman. I was a man. Already an adult, a soldier, a killer…

_I'm 19. Still standing in my underwear in the female barracks while NCIS snap photos of the scene. Corporal Loisa Morris. One of only four other women on our mission. A Sister, a soldier and a friend. Dead. I found her thirty minutes ago hanging naked from the shower nozzle by her bra strap. _

_I can only think that I'm strangely cold. And someone should cover her up. She shouldn't be seen like this. Not with officers around…_

_… I learned later I was still in shock. _

_"It's alright, Private." A voice speaks softly behind me. A hand is laid on my shoulder. My eyes are blurry and puffy with tears. I can't see. "Let's get you out of here, C'mon."_

_Masterchief. I fall into him. I'm not thinking. Not thinking straight. Loisa's dead. She hung herself. But a soldier doesn't commit suicide. She's dead she's dead she's fucking dead someone is repeating hollowly over and over a woman is crying-_

_"She was found with the body, Marine. She'll stay until we've gotten a statement-"_

_"She's Paltron, Private First Class. You can talk to her when she's dressed and coherent." That gruff voice continues. "She's been through enough Hell this morning."_

_"She's a suspect-"_

_"Don't be a cocksucking idiot. I don't have to be a forensic specialist to know that body's in rigor. Happens faster out here in the desert, yeah, but not that fast. Gotta be a few hours old at the least…"_

_They argue. Masterchief wins. The world goes from black to dazzling white. A blanket is thrown over my shoulders. Darkness again. I wake up and Masterchief and the Medical Officer are standing over me. _

_My face is wet and my nose and mouth are sticky. It's only then I realize I've been bawling like a baby for the last half hour. They give me some pills. Glass of water. Say it's a sedative. Drink. I'll feel better. I pop. Swallow. Masterchief asks to talk to me alone and the medic leaves. _

_"Private, do you know any reason why Corporal Morris would want to kill herself?"_

_Yes. Yes and it scares the shit out of me. I've been shot at. Watched the armored vehicle in front of me disintegrate over a roadside bomb. I've seen men die and I've killed them. Warizistan's a fucking messed up place, but I was never told to fear this. "Loisa, she, Corporal Morris, sir, she told me…"_

_He nods his head. "Go on."_

_"…she said she'd been sexually assaulted, sir." The words seem empty and meaningless. Try to calmly convey the horror. Try to cover it up. Eulogize it. But they can't change it. Can't ever change it. My best friend was fucking raped, and now she's fucking dead._

_Masterchief sighs. Wipes his face with one sweaty hand. "Did she say when?"_

_My voice is small. "About a month ago, sir. On guard duty."_

_He grimaces. "Did she say who?" _

_Suddenly I'm terrified. "S-she, she wouldn't say." Only one reason for that. He outranked her. Outranked her and could make her life miserable. He could be anyone. Anyone with rank. And here I am sitting alone in the medical bay in my underwear. I shiver. Pull the blanket tighter around me._

_"Only one reason for that, Private." Masterchief continues. "And you know what that is, don't you." _

_Hell, for all I know, it could be him. I've trusted him. Respected him. Looked up to him like an older brother or a father. And suddenly all that trust is shot to Hell. Someone was raped, my friend was raped on a secure United States Military base. There's nowhere safe I can ever go. No man I can ever trust again…_

_Suddenly he sighs. Reads my thoughts. "She wouldn't tell me either."_

_"What-?" I sit up straighter, relief flooding into my veins. "S-she, Loisa-Corporal Morris-she told you?"_

_"I'm the SAPRO Officer on this base. Something like this happens, well, you guys have the right to report it confidentially. Get the counseling and support you need without fear of retribution. She came to me. Three weeks ago." He sighs again. "Lot of fucking good it did her. Emergency contraceptives and a couple of stitches. Hell."_

_Couple of stitches. I want to hurl. Couple of stitches. I don't want to know where. "What are you gonna do?" I choke._

_"Me?" Masterchief asks. "Nothing. My hands are tied. The report was confidential, she wouldn't do a kit. I got diddly-shit."_

_Disbelief. "But, but you have to tell her family-"_

_"Yeah, right." He snarls. "You think the US military's gonna let that go public? While the war's so popular and all? You think her family wants to know their baby got raped as well as strangled? Nah. They'll keep this quiet. They might even tell them she died in combat. If she didn't tell them, they'll never know."_

_"B-but he's still out there," I whisper hoarsely. "He's…whoever he is he's…" still out there. And he'll do it again. And he could be anyone. Sitting in the medics office on the exam table where Morris sat a month ago with blood pouring down her legs scared shitless to say anything she had blood pouring down her legs not a soldier not a Marine just a woman a woman scared to death…_

_"Ain't the first time." Masterchief snarls. "Won't be the last. You put women on a base and this sort of thing happens. Hell, before they put women on bases this sort of thing happened. Only difference is men don't talk about it. And men can't get pregnant. Once the evidence is gone, it's gone. No offense, Private, but women have no fucking business being deployed, active duty or not my ass. And you can quote me on that."_

_Fear. Anger. Disappointment. Grief. "You're not going to do anything." _

_"No, I'm not. I can't. You hear me, Private? I can't." He enunciates slowly. "You been listening closely?" The words are punctuated with meaning. My eyes narrow and my heart nearly stops. His words go round and round in my aching head the room is spinning spinning nauseating and spiraling down, down and it comes to this:_

_I can't. Men can't get pregnant. Ain't the first time. Won't be the last. _

_"Sir, what are you saying-?" I finally ask._

_Masterchief rises. Walks to the door. "I ain't saying anything," he responds cryptically. Then he's gone._

_Masterchief gives me an official mission. Compile post-service psychological statistics of female soldiers from our mission. He's got to give a debriefing. Wants to know if our stats deviate from the norm. Gives me the title of Researcher and gets me clearance. But it's not the official report we're interested in. I go through records. Personnel files. Every woman who's worked on this mission. Three hundred names in all over 8 years of the War on Terror. I see the faces of the dead or decommissioned. I read about divorce, PTSD and suicides. Red and Bear say I'm losing it. I think they're right. _

_It takes me two jumpy months to find out. Two months to get leave to go stateside and do some digging. Two months of terror on night watch, two months of looking over my shoulder and tossing and turning in restless sleep. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone. He could rape me. Beat me. Hang me by my bra in the showers and no one would ever know. But I'm sick of being terrified. Sick of fear. Sick of not even being able to confide in Jon because the rapist bastard could be reading my letters. I won't live in the Valley of the Shadow anymore. My terror turns to zeal. Red and Bear tell me I need more sleep. But they don't know what I need. I need to find him. I need to know. I need to see him pay for what he did. _

_…I need to know I can feel safe again._

_We get our leave. I get to go back to Gotham for 21 days with Jon. I don't want to lose him. Not like all those other women. I won't be like them. Don't ever want to be like them. I won't be raped or abused or driven crazy. I won't kill myself. Jon takes me to dinner. We go dancing. He kisses me, tells me I'm everything he'll ever need. I don't tell him I'm terrified. Don't tell him there's a rapist loose on my base and my best friend from basic killed herself. Don't tell him why the war's changed me so much. Try to keep it in until it's too late. He brings me home. Lays me down. Undresses me. Touches my face, my thighs, my breasts, and suddenly I'm bawling. _

_He holds me. Holds me close. Kisses my hair while I sob and moan and he never says a word about us not making love. _

_Later that I night I lie awake, Jon's arms around me and I swear l'll find him. Whoever he is I have to find him. He's taken my friend and now my marriage as well. _

_Fourteen days. Only seven left. Jon says I need sleep. I need to rest. Awkwardly asks me if I need to see a counselor. He'll go with me he says. He doesn't understand. Is it something he did. Something he said. Has being away changed my mind. I tell him there's something I have to do. He wants me to let him in._

_Emotionally. Physically. _

_I find eight. Eight women who were dishonorably discharged, unexpectedly transferred or given medical leave. Those our base didn't want to deal with. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe they reported a sexual assault. Maybe it was better for them to just get away and forget. Maybe the military was just covering their ass. _

_Maybe nobody cares. Nobody cares but me. _

_One's at Arkham. Raving nuts. Killed her husband and three kids and tried to kill herself. Another died in an automobile accident. Both her parents being treated for depression. Can't believe she's gone. Can't believe their little girl survived Hell to be hit and killed by a drunk driver. I say I'm sorry. Say I'm sorry for their loss. Another's separated but left no forwarding address. Husband opens the door and says she doesn't live her anymore. I ask him if he had any reason to suspect his wife had been sexually assaulted. He only laughs. "Sexually she's a lot of things." He says bitterly. "But assaulted isn't one of them." She came home from war and made love to 13 of his buddies, and one of their _wives_. I feel sick. I have to lay down. _

_Another's a student at Gotham University. Trying to get a degree while partying and using drugs to forget the war. I find her in the ICU of Gotham General for her third marijuana overdose in the last six months. She's comatose this time. They don't think she'll ever wake._

_Two were discharged with psychiatric illnesses. Schitzophrenia related to severe emotional disturbance due to psychological trauma. The military provides them with free medical care and drugs at the local VA hospital. They'd send them their disability checks, too, if they could provide a home address. That's when I learn the awful truth: no one gives a shit about homeless vets, not even the US Military. The last anyone saw one of them was over a year ago. Two women in their late twenties. Homeless. Sick. Wandering the streets…_

_…No one even bothered issuing a missing persons report. They just fell through the cracks. No one misses them but me. _

_Two are married. Refuse to talk when I mention sexual assault. One bitch-slaps me. Their husbands ask me to leave. Slam the door in my face. I stand in the yard and beg them to reconsider. To get some justice. She throws books at me from a second story window, screaming she'll call the cops. The other ignores me. I'm close. So close. But no one will help me. No one wants to help me. No one wants to help themselves. _

_Four days left. Jon wants to know why I'm so upset. Wants to know what happened. I tell him nothing. He's angry. We fight. We shout. He leaves. I curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep. I hate being a woman. Hate being so goddamned vulnerable. I hate being so goddamned weak. _

_The last 'isn't home'. A Latina nanny opens the door, says she's gone on vacation. It's bullshit, the car's in the drive and someone's walking around upstairs. My heart breaks. Last hope shatters. There's a beautiful, beautiful little blonde girl playing and prattling on the porch too young too innocent to know about sex let alone rape let alone have her mother confess she's the product of rape. It's here. Everything she needs for justice is right here on her porch, just her baby and her statement and in three long years she's done nothing. Absolutely, fucking nothing. _

_...And now she won't even give me the time of day. _

_Jon apologizes. Says he loves me, but he needs me, too. Says he can't get deployed again not knowing where we stand. We try. It hurts. I can't. I'm naked and bleeding all over the sheets. It won't stop. Jon's frustrated and horny and has to dress me and drive me to the hospital. _

_Gotham General. The ER is cold and sterile. Unfeeling. They don't give a shit about your modesty. I'm crying and ashamed and terrified. They take my clothes. Make Jon leave. I'm naked under a gown with my legs spread and open and they bring in a male cop who tells me I've been raped. I'm empty and angry and I want to go home. They want to run a kit. Want to arrest Jon. _

_I tell them I'm 19 and goddamn married. It was consensual sex-I can't even have consensual sex with my goddamned husband!-and I want to go home. The nurses get my clothes. Tell me to leave the bastard. One tells me I'm a stupid teenage whore and that she warned me and she won't be sorry if I come in next week in the morgue. I tell her to go to Hell. _

_The doctor won't check me out. Threatens me that insurance won't pay for it. I have to write a check to cover a five-hundred dollar ER visit while Jon asks me why the Hell I called the cops. __The nurse calls him a bastard. The officer a rapist. They both call me an idiot. We go to the car. Jon turns on me and shouts, "What the Hell do they mean by rape-!"_

_I break down. Want to cry into his chest but he's too angry to goddamn touch me. I'm losing it I'm losing him losing everything I'm alone and empty and no one cares…no one cares but _Jon.

_So I tell him. I tell him everything. I tell him about Morris and Masterchief and all these other women too afraid too afraid to say anything do anything why doesn't somebody do something tell him I'm terrified of being raped terrified of going back to war terrified that bastard's out there if I don't find him he'll rape again if I can't stop him I'll never feel safe, never feel strong, never be able to have sex again and I'll lose Jon lose him like all these other women deranged divorced or dead…_

_My man comes through. I wake in the morning and Jon smiles at me. Tells me it's all over. He took me home then went back to those addresses. Pounded on the doors until the husbands came down. Two called the cops. The other listened. Listened to another man tell him his own wife was terrified of being raped, so terrified she couldn't even tell him, so terrified she couldn't even have sex because her friend's rapist was out there somewhere and that same man had raped his. Asked him how terrified, how pressured she had to feel every time they made love. Asked him if he wanted her to live like that. To live a lie. To live in fear. Asked him if he wanted to be married, to be sleeping with a woman who thought all sex was rape. Asked him if he wanted his wife to think he was a rapist._

_…He said no. _

_She calls me later. Her voice is monotone. It's brief and short but she gives me what I need. What she needs: Her statement. Captain Travis Bingham. My commanding officer. Marine. Soldier. Husband and father of three…and a rat-bastard rapist._

_One night left. I ask Jon if he wants to try again. He says no. He'll wait for me. Wait until I'm ready. Wait for me as long as it takes…_

_I fly through Paris. Connect to Pakistan. Try to sleep on the dusty, bumpy convoy back to base. Every mile brings me closer to justice. Red and Bear say I'm looking better. Joke that 'a good lay-er, trip stateside, was what you needed.' I find Masterchief. Tell him I have information on the briefing. He says it can wait until after orders. Orders from Bingham. Orders from a rapist. _

_I tell Masterchief I have to tell him _now_._

_"You're sure?" He asks me. "Absolutely sure?" He'd heard most of the stories before. Knew times. Dates. Had whittled it down to a handful of officers who'd had the opportunity of being in the right place, right time. But he'd never suspected this. __He shakes his head. Grunts. "My hands are tied."_

_I explode. "The Hell do you mean your hands are tied? I have the evidence! That baby proves it!"_

_"If she's willing to testify. And from what you've said, she's not."_

_My words are desperate, my thoughts are racing. "We can get a court-order-"_

_"It's confidential, don't you get it?" Masterchief barks. "I was breaking privilege even telling you! Any one of those women you interviewed tries to press charges my ass will be court-martialed, you hear? Those women came to me because they thought I'd keep it private, do you understand? And now you want a fucking court-order for DNA? You have any idea what that will do? How many women won't come forward if they fear they're going to get dragged in front of court?"_

_I bite back my retort: they're already not coming forward. And a fat fucking lot of good SAPRO's done for the ones who have. "Maybe we can convince her to testify-"_

_'I couldn't." Masterchief sighs. "And you couldn't. What makes you think you'll have better luck next time? And it's too late, Paltron. Without a rape kit, without any other physical evidences all that baby proves is they had sex. Getting charged with having sex with an enlisted women, that's a demotion. Not justice."_

_I'm devastated. Reel against the wall with a groan. So close. We're so goddamned close! "Why the Hell don't women come forward," I choke. _

_"Because they're ashamed and embarrassed and a rape trial's Hell." Masterchief snarls. "You wanna know why I asked for this job? My daughter was raped at a college frat party. Went to trial. Back before they had all these victim protection laws and they ripped her to Hell and called her a drunken whore. The bastard walked with a slap on the wrist and she spent the next three years drinking herself to death."_

_Hot tears. I shudder. Had no idea…_

_" Even nowadays a civilian lawyer would tell you it ain't worth it. Better to just forget about it, better to settle things out of court. It's a he-said/she-said, and the best attorney wins. If you don't have the kit it ain't worth it. And hell, even that doesn't prove anything. And getting that kit, well, I don't blame women for not. It's like getting raped again. Cold-blooded rape by a doctor and a witness-"_

_I think back to Gotham General. I agree. _

_"Best to just let it go. To spare yourself the indecency of a trial. Wish my Katie had, and she might still be here today. Morris is dead. Your key witness gave her statement to you, not JAG, not the cops. And I'm damn-well betting the only other person she'll ever let know is her fucking therapist. We don't have a case, Private. We have no witnesses. No testimony. No evidences. Nothing. It's all circumstantial. All coincidence."_

_"There has to be something." I choke. "She has to have justice."_

_"Justice?" Masterchief laughs. "She's dead. You can't give her justice. It's over, Paltron. Legally there's nothing more we can do."_

_"So that's it, then." I say bitterly. "I trusted you. I trusted you and you let me down. You lied to me. You lied. You ruined my life. You took my innocence. You nearly destroyed my marriage and I told myself it would all be worth it, I believed you it would all be worth it and now you're standing here in your goddamn _officer_'s uniform with your goddamn _sob-story _and now you're telling me you that you won't fucking do anything-!" I'm panting and choking and crying like a spoiled, sniveling kid at Christmas who didn't get her way. I'm selfish and ashamed. It's not about Morris anymore. It's about me. This, all this, everything I've done and sacrificed and nearly lost hasn't been for Morris. It's all been for me. _

_"I, I…I'm-I'm so sorry about Katie-" I finally choke._

_Masterchief waves me off. His eyes are sad. Strained. Somber. "You're wrong, Private." He whispers. "I only said legally we've run out of options. I never said I wasn't going to do anything." He takes my hand gently like a man would do his daughter's and he kisses it. I blink, dry my tears, and understand this conversation-like this kiss-never happened._

_Two nights later there's a horrible explosion on our base. Fragmentation grenade in the commanding officer's quarters. The next morning at mess we're informed of the tragic death of Captain Bingham. JAG and NCIS would be back to investigate and we would all cooperate fully. But every one of us knows the truth: there's not enough evidence left from a fragging to close a case. _

_Sunlight. Elation. The fear is gone. It's over. It's done. The bastard's dead. He'll never rape again. And those three women, Morris and anyone else who was too afraid to report him…they finally have their peace. I skype with Jon. Tell him I love him. Want him. Need him. Make him promise next time we're together he'll fuck me silly. We laugh and chat and giggle until we're red in the face almost 4,000 miles apart it feels like he's right here beside me; and I want, yearn, need him here beside me, inside me…_

_That night before I sleep I get a strange feeling: for the first time in my life I've actually killed a man. I wasn't fighting in a war to protect my country, wasn't forced to pull the trigger on a 13-year old kid with an AK 47 in self-defense…I simply, cold-bloodedly murdered him. Maybe I didn't pull the pin. Didn't toss the grenade. But I helped to hunt and kill a man just the same…_

_…And I feel giddy and content and not one bit guilty about it. _

By the time Maggie was raped I was blinded by bitterness. By age and years of regret and loss. I'd lost my innocence a long, long time before. I was an adult at 19. She was only a child, a naïve college freshman with only nineteen years of sheltered experiences. Forgiveness or fear. Could Maggie Kyle's reticence have been a bit of both?

…and accepting that, believing that, even fucking thinking of thinking that I find myself at a hollow loss: would she, and did she, ever condone her sister's revenge-?

And another spiraling, plummeting thought knots my gut like that grenade in Pakistan: would Angel-? And I remember. Remember those horror-stricken eyes, that deep intake of breath, that spine-shattering shudder as Angel buried his face against my neck. That same innocence, that same naivety that led him running back to those bastard's arms…that same fucking forgiveness Maggie Kyle proclaimed…would Angel have ever once wished those heartless men living instead of dead-?

It's a question I never once asked Angel. And now I never will.

* * *

**09:17 EST**

******Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy**  


Soft whisper of cloth. I raise my eyes. Squint against the sun: Maggie Kyle. Soft, sad smile; freckle-strewn, innocent face, crystal clear green eyes. She looks much younger than I expected, like a photograph frozen in time. It's like she hasn't aged a day since her attacker brutalized her; she might as well still be nineteen.

She might as well be fucking dead. The dead never age. Never grow old. Never change. We see them exactly as they ever were, enshrined in our memories. And that's when I know it: Stan Shillings didn't just rape Maggie Kyle…he murdered her as well. This is not the ghost I would have my answers of. But she's the only link to Jimmy Connolly I have left, a gateway, a shaman, a speaker for the dead.

I stand. "Maggie Kyle?"

"Sister Teresa Margaret," she says kindly. "What can I do for you?"

Habit by now. Instinct. Reflex. I flash my badge, and that smile falters. "Gwen Paltron. GCPD. I have a few questions for you."

Her eyes harden instantly. "I don't have anything to say to you, Detective." She says coolly. Shit. I've never been good with conversation. Never been good at approaching people. In 39 years I've never known how to ask for help.

…and now I fucking need it.

"Maggie, please-" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"The case is closed. A man is dead and my sister's in prison. What more can you possibly want from me?"

I begin anew, nervous, desperate. "Even before your sister killed Stan Shillings-"

She sighs, eyes downcast. "May God have mercy on his soul," she murmurs.

"Even before she killed him you refused to testify," I continue. "You came here. Why?"

"If you're looking for guilt there is none." Maggie responds guardedly. "I had nothing to do with that man's death."

But I cannot read that look. Not honestly. There is a part of me-too much of me-that _wantsneedsdemands_ her sanction of his death. "Then if it's not penance, who are you protecting?"

"I'm not protecting anyone, Detective," Angel's sister chides. "Your work has corrupted your heart. Must the police always be so suspicious? So judging? I made a choice, and I've chosen to show others that our God is a God of love. Of compassion. Of Forgiveness."

"You've forgotten justice." I add.

"You have much anger. You are angry at Him, I can tell," she continues. "Rash things are done in anger. Rash and horrible. Do not forget He loves you."

"Yeah." I snort. "Well, if God loves me, Maggie, He sure has a fucking hilarious way of showing it." Disability. Divorce. Dead son…

"Those He loves He chastens," she answers humbly. But that answer is rehearsed. Trite. Glib. Something snaps, and I'm done being nice. Done playing games. Rape or not she has no right, no reason to mock my pain. For six years she's been brainwashed, the Church's puppet…now I will make her speak.

"One last thing, Maggie."

"Teresa Margaret," she amends.

"No. I'm not talking to you, Sister." I correct the composed young woman standing before me harshly. "I'm talking to _Maggie Kyle_. The bleeding, naked teenager with some stranger's semen inside her who lay in a coma for three and a half weeks after some motherfucker raped her, beat her and left her for dead. The thing about forgiveness is that you have to ask for it, Maggie. Stan Shillings ever ask you to forgive him?"

Shock. Outrage. She couldn't be more shaken had I bitch-slapped her Raphaelian face. And there she is. The façade is dropped. Maggie Kyle stands before me no more than the broken girl she really is. "Stop," she sobs.

"Not once? Not once during the three hours he brutalized you? What about when you lay in the hospital on a ventilator for a month dying? He write to you? Come to you in a vision? He ever turn himself in-?"

"N-no-" she begins, but I'm not done. Not nearly done.

"Not even after every major news network in the world covered your story and the Pope himself congratulated you on your acceptance to the Convent-he never showed up here? He never came to confessional-?"

"Shut up!" She cries, "Just shut up-!"

"Did he, Maggie?" I insist.

"G-God f-f-forgave him!"

"No, Maggie. He didn't," I tell her coldly. "_You_ did. And you let him fucking walk away and rape again."

Silence. Those wide, tear-streaked green eyes blink once and crystal turns to cloudy jade. Innocence and naivety are gone. The time for sorrow and grief is past. Maggie Kyle's face is a mask of horror and hate and for one split-second I see the sinister shadow of her sister on her face. Then Angel's sister whispers those three hissing words to her tormenters that she's denied herself for six long, unforgetting years: _go to Hell_.

Watching her weep I feel guilt. Shame. Complicity. Wish I could lift up embracing arms and ease her pain, but I cannot. I am Gotham, her police brutality, her corruption and her sin. I'm a cruel, conniving cunt and Maggie Kyle hates me for it. I came here for answers. For consolation. _Was it worth it, Bitch?_ I berate myself. _Terrorizing a little girl? Making her re-live that Hell? You happy now?_

I have my bitter answers: I'm a better monster than I am a mother, and everything I touch turns to rottenness and death. It is my curse. It is my gift.

…I am a Killer so my Angel-like Maggie Kyle-will never have to be. _Don't worry, Maggie_, I promise her retreating back. _They will_.

* * *

**AN: For those of you who may have wondered, Master Chief is a military ranking that is WAY up there. However, in Ernestina, **_**Masterchief **_**is an affectionate nick-name given to the Mortalis Master Sergeant Paltron serves under in Warizistan, due, no doubt, to his apparent resemblance to a character of the Halo game universe.**


	34. Deceivre

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: This chapter rated M for language. **

**

* * *

**

**Saturday, August 31****st**

**12:00 EST**

**Ave Maria Boulevard**

The bus ride is uneventful. Surreal. Yesterday I killed two thugs on an empty subway car. Washed the blood away with sweat, tears and rain. Today I ride again on Gotham City Public Transit, already plotting my next kill.

The bus halts. I disembark, two long lines of blank, expressionless faces say their silent farewell. Zombies, Zsasz called them. Angel would have me call them sheep. Lost, lame, and leaderless in a sprawling urban Hell of bloodshed, snares and deceit. Men like Gordon and Lawless will try to shepherd them. Women like Maggie Kyle try to feed them…

…no one volunteers to slay the wolves.

* * *

**13: 07 EST**

**Green Street Parking Garage**

Stalton's car is right where I left it, plus a thirty-five dollar parking violation fine courtesy of Gotham's finest. The Legacy isn't two weeks fallen, a terrorist is loose in our streets, but already Gotham has adjusted. Already she has forgotten. I will make her remember.

I tear the ticket. Leave the shreds. At least it wasn't impounded. Traffic Enforcement is corrupt, inept, and downright shitty but even they'd have a hard time ignoring a trunk-full of military arsenal. Before I leave the safety of the garage I check the turn signals. Lights. Fuel gauge. Place my badge and ID on the passenger's seat. I'm taking no chances, leaving nothing to fate. To the untrained eye I'm just a civilian. And if I happen to get inspected at a National Guard checkpoint, well, _you can trust me boys, _I hiss to the rearview mirror, _I'm one of the good guys._

_

* * *

_

**13:53 EST**

**103****rd**** Street**

TV 18 Studios. The Joker's little house of horrors. It's been sitting outside my right window for half and hour now. Gasoline fumes rise from the idling hybrid cars, and it fucking figures this old heap doesn't have AC. We're packed in like polarized sardines, and there's no hope of backing out. This checkpoint is solid-a refreshing rarity for Gotham City. If it weren't for the fact I'm nervous and baking it might just be the one day I'm proud to be carrying a bronze shield inside the city limits. Every car is tossed. Every driver searched. And milling around just in case anyone thinks about thinking about trying something suspicious are sixteen freshly shaven twenty- somethings in full body armor all toting M-16's with a shoot-to-fucking-kill order attached. This old tincan gas-guzzler's got an eight cylinder engine in her and she packs a Hell of a punch but she doesn't stand a chance against automatic weapons fire.

And no way in Hell I'm drawing on a fellow cop. Fellow soldier. Sure, there's rotten ones, especially here in Gotham, but you always run the risk of wasting the one decent guy with a wife and young kid at home. A man like Lawless. No, this one I'm gonna have to bullshit my way through.

It's my turn. Two uniforms approach and I've already got my badge ready, some crazy-ass story about the McCoy weapons bust, chain of evidence and need-to-know basis that's just about believable on the tip of my tongue when all hope dies in my throat and my _oh, fuck_ meter goes from shit to worse. These two aren't just your ordinary rent-a-cop traffic pukes….they're from GCPD Homicide. Crispus Allen and Renee Montoya-Metropolis' golden-boy and the leanest, meanest lesbian Latina I've ever met. She's into boxeo and street-fighting and she fights like a snake. We used to go for drinks and some sparing rounds before Harvey Dent 'accidentally' outted her. After that she kept her distance. I suppose she was afraid of scaring people-especially other women-but I knew I wasn't her type and Hell, I'd already guessed…there's only so long you can stare at another woman's ass before it stops being jealousy. On our first match she'd have knocked me flat if I hadn't had at least five inches and a good sixty pounds on her. It's not so much the strength but the element of surprise that gets you-you just don't expect that sort of power from someone so small, as many criminals can attest. When Renee slams a perp against the hood, he _feels _it. And he _keeps on feeling it_ for a long, long time.

…I'd know. I get to do all the paperwork.

In any other department in any other city she'd rank number one for brutality charges against a cop. But fortunately for her she's in Gotham, and more importantly she's not _me_, and she's got a boss who sympathizes. I know firsthand the flack you take for being a woman on the beat, and I sure as hell can't imagine how much fire she takes from both the black and Hispanic communities for wearing the 'white man's' uniform. But as long as the murdering bastard is off the street, Joe Citizen really doesn't give a damn if it's minus a few teeth or intact ribs, and neither do I. IAB doesn't really give a shit, Gordon might frown and call it police corruption…

…I like to think of it as 'got your back.'

* * *

**14: 25 EST**

Footsteps. So much for genius planning. I've got two of Gotham's most honest cops standing feet from the fucking mother-load. They respect my position. Hell, they might even like me. But they also know and obey the rules. I've no doubt either one could cuff or plug me if they had to. It's what makes them good cops-and it's also got me worried.

Mirrored sunglasses and a wide, toothy grin fill up my driver's side window. "Well, would ya lookie here." Allen whistles, slipping the glasses down for a wink. "You _still_ look like shit, honey."

"You know this chic?" Montoya's voice comes from my right.

"She signs your fucking paychecks, if that helps." Allen chuckles.

"Paltron-?" Montoya gasps, and before I can think the words oh, shit the passenger side door's open and she's clamored in. "Madre de Dios, do you look terrible."

"Try getting a fucking building dropped on your head." I say slowly. "Then see how _you_ feel."

"Been there. Done that." She quips with a wicked grin, "And _I _still showered this morning."

"Touché." I return.

"Hey, 'Nay, how about this one?" Allen interrupts, peeping in again. "She's gone from Guate_mala_ to Guate_peor_ since last time I seen her."

"You," Montoya says with her throatiest, most refined Spanish tones, "are _increíble_. Brother, your people dey can't even speak no English right, let alone the mother-tongue." The switch to MBV is seamless and completely insulting. But that's how their partnership works. The ACLU and political correctness in the workforce be damned, if two people can work together and do it good no one really gives a shit what they say to razz each other.

"Damn it, 'Nay, some days you make a better black man than I do." Crispus fumes.

"That only cuz I be a better black man dan you, _hombre_." Renee returns. "And what the Hell sort of car is this?" She asks amusedly. "This thing has got to be from the nineties at the least."

"Try the sixties." Allen corrects, patting the roof with reverence. "Damn, girl, you might know something about languages but you don't know anything about machines. This baby here's a classic."

"Yeah, a classic _boat._ It probably runs on pure gasoline. EPA doesn't even allow manufacture of those sort of engines any more. This thing is fuckin' old." She slaps the dash. My heart beats slowly, steadily. My breaths are paced. But my mind is reeling lest they betray me. I'm riding a wooden horse through fucking Troy and I don't have time for small talk-especially not with soldiers.

"Yeah, but it's a _classic._ Gran Torino, sixty-eight or sixty-nine. And yeah, it was the name of an Eastwood movie." Allen says with a wink. "So don't embarrass yourself by asking." He turns back to me, a strange, boyish excitement in his eyes. "I didn't know you were into cars, Paltron. She could use a wash and a wax but she's in great shape." He pats the hood with fond nostalgia. "Where'd you get her?"

They say an honest man's more likely to believe a lie, that a man who lies for a living will know a lie when he sees it. But when you've got milliseconds to answer an honest man's question and everything at stake, you've got to go with your gut. Allen's a good man. Good cop. He's honest as hell but he isn't naïve, and my gut says he'd smell a lie a mile away. There's really only one thing left then: I have to tell the truth.

"Off a dead guy in Old Town." I state in perfect deadpan. "Funny story. You should check it out."

…Silence.

Then,"_Sheee_-it!" Montoya guffaws and slaps the dash again, olive skin flushing crimson. Allen simply chuckles. I just bullshitted one of Gotham's top cops and got away with it-but I'm not celebrating just yet.

"Haha. Don't do an old man like that, honey." Allen remonstrates. "No, seriously, where?"

"Nostalgizmos." It's an antique store/museum for the technologically oriented. They sell all sorts of classic cars and outdated electronics-CD players, Apple 2E's, hell, I think I even saw a gramophone once. It's not the truth, but it's not an outright lie either. You can lie through your teeth when you're bullshitting someone unless they're a Detective with a reason to run a background check. And if Allen's half the aficionado I think he is this is one detail he'll check out for personal reasons. And if it didn't pan out…well, a cop's only got one reason to lie to another soldier, and Allen's got the sort of mind that remembers. I make sure he does. "Got a 66 Corvette there, too. Fixed her up myself."

His dark eyes go dreamy. "What color?"

I force a smile. "Red."

"Hot damn, honey, if I weren't already married…" Allen sucks in his breath. "Never seen you drive her."

"I don't get her out much." It's the truth: besides a test ride, I've never driven her. I bought her, fixed her up six years ago as Angel's 16th birthday present. Six years. Six years waitingwishingpraying for my son to come home…and now he never will. _Fuck_. Angel-!

_No, Bitch, no. Don't go there. Don't go there now…_

It costs everything I have left to hold it together. Fear. Anger. Love. Loss…and in the end, it's only Allen's soliloquy that saves me. "Like to get one of those myself, you know?" I find Montoya patiently indulging his long-winded reminisce. "My old man drove one once-got it used from his dad. And shit, girl, if he still doesn't go on about that damned old car."

"How is he, anyways?" Montoya asks hurriedly, as if to change the subject. Open heart surgery-that's right. Only twenty days ago Allen asked off for personal leave since his father collapsed in Metropolis. Bum ticker, he'd called it. You'd think you'd remember something like that. When someone you see everyday's father might be dying you remember things like that. But then the Legacy fell. She fell and She changed everything…

"Doin' alright," Crispus shrugs, then looks thoughtful. "You know, my old man would _love_ to see this thing."

…she changed it forever. I blink back tears. "You mind if I take a look?" He asks casually.

"No. Go ahead." I choke. I clamor out and help heft up the hood. The hinges squeal something bad but the metal gives. "Take all the time you need."

So we stand shoulder to shoulder, and for five minutes Crispus Allen videochats across the country and relives the good old days with a father on a hospital bed somewhere in Metropolis…and in the sweltering heat of the summer sun suddenly I realize they're talking about a world Renee Montoya will never understand. I'm nearly forty. Allen's pushing forty-five. His father's in his seventies. But Montoya will never remember a Gotham before Thomas Wayne, a US before a black president…a world without 9/11.

"Kinda makes you feel young again," Allen's father says with a tinge of admiration and longing. Hell. I've never felt older in my life.

* * *

**14: 41 EST**

It's over. Montoya's bored as Hell, Allen's hung up and I've just promised an old man I've never met that I'll send him a picture of Angel's corvette. Yet another lie, and this one as bitter as wormwood in my mouth. You just don't lie to an old man you've never met. Not about something like this.

And here it comes. "Whatcha got in the trunk?" Crispus finally asks.

"The usual." I respond. "Spare tire. Tire iron. Contraband military weapons and class I explosives." I add as an afterthought.

He laughs and shakes his head. "And let me guess: the fucking _Joker_. I thought as much." He swats the car and slams the hood. "Get out of here, girl. Go home, get some sleep."

"Will do." I lie. And suddenly, the danger is past. They step back. Wave. Armed soldiers move out of the roadblock and the checkpoint is clear. I seems too good to be true. My heart is hammering and I want to hurl. My eyes are glued to the rear view mirror until Allen and Montoya's waving figures are out of sight. And then, only then, do I let out a breath my aching lungs didn't realize they were holding.

Three stoplights later the nervousness is gone. It's replaced by guilt. I hate having to lie to them. To worry over them. To know that in time-whether days or weeks-this day will haunt them. They'll blame themselves for what's about to come. All the death and violence and bloodshed. Every body. Every life. Mine to extinguish, but theirs to mourn, and theirs to bring to justice…and it comes to this: I might be a Killer but I'm not conscienceless. In TV 18 studios I promised Gordon this would end. I know now I can't love my Angel and still take an innocent life. Can't kill someone who doesn't deserve to die. When the hunt is on I must be ready for them. Must be faster, smarter, stronger. Must stay two steps ahead. But if they find me…Montoya, Allen, Gordon or Lawless-_Lawless!_-I will not make him make the hard choice. Live with even more regret. My Angel was taken from me, and if I can't avenge him…I have no more reason to keep him waiting.

* * *

**22:10 EST**

**The Narrows**

It's later. Much later. Under cover of darkness I stash my arsenal in an abandoned GCPD safe house two miles from my first bolt-hole. If you want a place to hide something, there's no better place than the obvious. Cops don't use it-cops don't trust it. Falcone's and Meroni's spies knew too much-still do. Maybe La Casa Nostra knows about this place, maybe they don't, but the GCPD under Gordon's watch has learned it's best to play it on the safe side…assuming they can get a witness willing to trust their lives to the ineptitude of the GCPD and witness protection. A decade ago Joe Chill was shot to death inside the Courthouse. A little more than a year has passed since Harvey Dent got a gun pulled on him inside a fucking court room. Press like that tends to stick in the public's mind.

But whatever those Mobster bastards are doing, they'll only check this place on a manhunt. An arms cache is safe. Right now, we've got no witnesses. The Batman's gone, the police are powerless, but even the presence of the Guard isn't stopping Meroni. He's onto something. Something big. And whatever it is, it's fucking bad. You don't survive twenty years living by your gut to have it turn now. Last year he fell in with the Joker then changed his mind when his conscience got too dirty. Tipped us off…then Batman nearly killed him for it. Only a year…even after crippling injuries how could he have forgotten what sort of monster that Purple Bastard was? Or it La Casa Nostra simply doing what they've always done, profiting off of other's misfortunes-?

I don't know. Not yet, at least. But I will find my answers. But involved in the Legacy or not Meroni's still guilty. Guilty of murder. Bloodshed. Fraud. Greed and lust. He's put innocents in the ground and glutted the gutters with their blood. A Pontius Pilot who cleanses his hands, but the guilt will never go away. And the Joker will seek to use him-to use all of Gotham's crime-lords as he did last year. Gambol, Chechen, Meroni…they thought they were hiring him. They were wrong.

It's easier to build from a pre-existing infrastructure. It's what the Joker will do all over again. Kill many pawns, some lieutenants, and a general if he must to get the message across, but in the end they'll all turn. They will bow to Nebakanezer's Image or be cast into the flames. So I will tear it down. Turn them against each other until there's no one left to trust…then one by one I will destroy them all.

I have it here. All here. Locked away underground in a secret passage to the sewers-a backdoor escape plan should the cover of the safehouse be blown. Automatic rifles and a shit-ton of rounds, a crate of plastics and fuses—and then there's the fucking motherload: an RPG-7 and 20 OG-7V's. Every weapon of every would-be urban warrior at my disposal. Gang task force, VICAP and ten years street experience are nothing compared to first-hand knowledge of Stalton's clientele and their preferences. The Latin Kings like their knifings and explosives while wanna-be rapper gangsters like Rulz prefer the AK-47 both in their music vids and on the street, while White-power likes to 'buy American.' As for the Italians and the Russians…I now know _who_ bought _what_ and _when._ And you can bet your ass with a common supplier they all know as well. When I went to Old Town I unwittingly stumbled upon a goldmine of information for creating the perfect frame.

I run my fingers across cold steel and feel the thrill of adrenaline prickle down my spine. It will take thought. Thought and planning and patience. For now I only have a crude sketch in mind…but revenge, after all, is a dish best served _cold_.

I leave the house through a back alley. Lock her up behind me. Breathe in the night wind's reek of grease, soot, fear and guilty consciences. This City is my Canvas. These weapons my Brushes. My paint, their blood. I'm a dying woman with a grudge to pay but before I go I'll create a Da Vinci the like even Gotham's dark underworld has never dreamed.

* * *

**AN: as you can see, most of the villains in Ernestina are/will be OC's. For those of you disappointed not to see more canon favorite 'baddies', my apologies. Due to the nature of this fic most of the villains have to be inherently expendable. However, given that this IS Gotham City and Gotham City is known for her crazies, I'm going to try to work in some 'Star Power', even if it's just as cameos or background origin stories. So take some time to vote for your favorite on the poll on my profile page! **


	35. Persephone

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: This chapter is rated M for language, racism, gross living conditions and violence. Again, all opinions and views expressed by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and while I believe it important to represent the realities of racism and inner city gang violence I in no ways am attempting to promote them. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own kickass Forensic Scientist Andrea Taylor, she's an OC visiting from Irish Luck19's Unmasked, one of the newest, most promising Harley Quinn origin stories I've come across on this site!**

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* * *

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**Monday, September 2nd**

**Sunrise**

**The Narrows-****1421 Riverview Apartments (Bolthole #1)**

…Angel-!

Dark, doe-like eyes are open, staring into mine. His hand is warm and soft, fingertips laid gently against my cheek. Through the net of my lashes I see him smile, corners of his small mouth turning up, sending my heart aching and leaping in a flutter of maternal wonder. I'm dreaming, caught in the dusk between slumber and wakefulness, each second ebbing further from this place of peace and content back into utter darkness. I try to hold on, to feel the sharpness of his nails laid against my bone but already it is fading. Angel. His dark eyes blaze and his face goes white, translucent skin blinding me, disappearing into a flash of the purest, scintillating light-

The sun. She streams in unwelcome through open blinds, piercing my eyes, bringing with her both light and yet another day's sorrow and sickness. Never before have I been so reluctant to see her. I look with longing across the bedframe but know in my heart the boy isn't there.

"Come back," I whisper with my waking breath. But I know he never will.

* * *

**Morning**

I shower. Rinse my tired body with rust and sulfur and will the pain away. I hide my face under a hooded sweatshirt, and walk five blocks to get breakfast. The bolthole won't do me any good as a hide-out if the neighborhood knows me. I pay cash for stale coffee and day-old muffins, and eat them on the go. I've got to stock up on food, keep myself out of sight, out of mind. With my head down and haggard face I blend in, invisible, lost among the hopeless, homeless masses of the Narrows.

* * *

**Daylight**

It's afternoon. My back is now stiff and sore. I add it to the list of things on my body that ache and resolve promptly to forget it. I've sat for hours planning, watched the sun rise to its noon zenith and sink again, sending streaking shadows to spread across the dingy walls from windows stained with decades of industrial soot, polluted dust and pigeon dung. A few more finishing touches and I am finished. I stand. Stretch. Pace the filthy flat until the stiffness wanes then return to bed for rest.

Only now do I notice the naked mattress is filthy and discolored. In the light of day crusted scabs of sweat, semen, and menstrual blood stain its fetid surface. The shudder is involuntary; the gag, reflexive. The shower? Mandatory. In retrospect, I should've known better than to lease from a land-lady who's willing to collect rent by the hour…

No towels, no soap, no curtain. I drip-dry and re-don Lawless' bloodied clothes, every moment becoming more squeamishly resigned to scabies, lice, ring-worm and foot-fungus. Before falling fitfully asleep on the molding carpet I add bleach, rubber gloves and household cleaners to my list for this festering, miserable Hades.

…Make that some air-freshener as well.

* * *

**Darkness**

Gunshots pierce the night. I wake instantly, coiled and ready to spring. But the shots are distant, muffled; and traffic rolls on, unchanging. For nearly an hour I lay awake, wait for the reassuring sound of sirens to offer my city solace. None come.

This is the Narrows, I am reminded as I drift back to sleep, home of thugs, mafiosos, illegals, outcasts, and ex-cons. Not a one of them is foolish enough to call the cops. But if Gordon won't police it, Chaos will.

* * *

**Morning**

Morning again. I initiate phase 1 of my war on Gotham: I have to fool the FBI.

I will find the truth behind Meroni's midnight visits to Sisters of Mercy. I will find who is responsible, and I will kill them. Kill them all. Brutally. Mercilessly. Systematically. But first I have to know my targets-their ranks in Meroni's employ, their bosses, and their shock value. It's one thing to lose a private, quite another to lose a general-and I will see Meroni both powerless and friendless before I destroy him. I will teach him what it is to fear. Let him know an Angel's pain-Salazar Meroni, you get to die alone.

But first I need names and addresses… and that's what Dan Murray and Eddie Nashton can give me. But before I can get those I've got to have faces. Legitimate ones. Faces that look like they've been taken off a GCPD ops mission-highly classified, of course. And then, only then, can I go to the Bureau and beg for some 'Interdepartmental Cooperation' on their ID's with Murray and Nashton none the wiser. But with the Legacy Murray'll be busy, and I'm not exactly his friend. I make a mental note to put on a friendly face when I see him and keep the bitterness in check. There's bad blood between the FBI and GCPD, and it goes back long before any of us. Before my Angel was murdered and the goddamned FBI waited three days to tell us about it while the Joker vanished without a trace. So much for the PANDEMONIUM Taskforce. So much for fucking 'interdepartmental collaboration'. So much for the deaths of Rachel Dawes, Judge Surillo, and Commissioner Loeb. So much for Harvey Dent. It used to be martyrdom meant something in Gotham City. It meant cooperation. Solidarity. The stick-to-itiveness and let's-get-shit-done attitude like the night Thomas and Martha Wayne died and the whole city went out on a manhunt…

…But now, now with this sick, sadistic Clown on the loose again…now I'm not so sure.

In the years I've been with the GCPD Dan Murray's done his best to keep a truce, but there is, has been, and will always be distrust between us and the Feds. Perhaps they're right not giving us the heads up when they encroach on our turf, perhaps it's safer that way, perhaps WATCHDOG, too, has been infiltrated by the corruption rampant in the GCPD but I'm damn sick of petty squabbles over jurisdiction, and of the heartache of having to scrape together the resources to make a bust only to find out the FBI has been running it for years with an undercover man on the inside.

I've been there. Had cover blown. Dangerous as hell and an entire identity, training and coaching, all those contacts, money, time, effort, lives…everything wasted.

_Red swastikas grin crookedly from the shamrocks on my biceps, and 88 glares from the nape of my neck below my nearly shaven crown. It's all henna, but no passersby could mistake me for anything other than the Aryan Brotherhood. I've had the damn things for over four months now, and I've grown tired of seeing their poison etched into my skin, tired of the words I must repeat to play this part. I am weary, heart-sick, ready to be done. And today we close. The Brothers have already boasted about the murder of a local political journalist, now they're about to let me in on their plot to destroy the Amerikaans community center-one of the largest and most controversial pro-immigrant aid centers on the East Coast; it's a second home to Gotham's South African immigrants-both legal and non-all trying to better their lives and English. Half the members on its roster are under 12, and I wouldn't doubt the majority are anchor babies…and these neo-nazi sons of bitches have decided to stage a perversion of Harpers Ferry, convinced the masses of oppressed whites who've gone jobless and hungry will rise to their call if they go and blow the Hell out of these 'foreigners.'_

_Foreigners my ass. Minus Arizona making a stand back when I was in Mortalis the US of A still hasn't grown any balls on the immigration issue. Yeah, I'd fucking love to see some more authoritative action along all our borders but these? They're children, born on American soil, and whatever their skin color or ethnic group they're citizens like the rest of us. That's the way it's always been. The way it should always be. But today I don't give a damn about the political intricacies of legal status—my son was taken from me as a boy and these motherfuckers are trying to kill little kids. I hope they rot in Hell. As the crisp September air disappears into the fumes of gasoline and carbon monoxide in the abandoned subway terminal I find myself wishing every single last one of them ends up with a black cellmate to teach them a lesson. Nothing enforces diversity like loss of a few teeth or sphincter control… _

_Milton and Bradley are monitoring us from a mobile lab. Crispus and Montoya have the cavalry on full alert, and Lawless and his new partner-O'Connell? Shit. Connolly-are waiting three blocks away in an unmarked car. "You ready?" I whisper into the lapel mike as the Ford idles loudly in the enveloping dark. The back is loaded with acetone. Lots of acetone. It's still liquid, but it's only a few short steps away from crystallization and becoming a deadly explosive. _

"_Yes sir! Er, ma'a-I mean, Lt!" Lawless' partner stammers quickly. My eyes roll involuntarily._

"_Don't kill yourself, Kid." Lawless laughs. Kid. Now there's a great moniker: he looks, sounds, and acts like a goddamned fifteen year-old. Sure, the GCPD are desperate but I still don't know what the hell Gordon was thinking hiring him…Or maybe I've been doing this so long I've forgotten what it means to be a rookie. But hell, I never was. I'd had 18 months of combat training in Pakistan before I ever got the badge. I grit my teeth and make a mental note to be nicer. "Everyone stay close." I whisper, and the radio goes silent. I'm in the belly of the beast now, and I'm all alone. No Lawless, no Gordon, just me, my wits and Art's old gun. A glance in the dusky rearview mirror: You still got it, bitch?_

…_Hell, yeah. _

_I kill the engine. Wrench the keys. Adrenaline kicks in with a rush of power. From the semi-darkness a voice calls, "Perci, that you?"_

"_Who else, dipshit?" I ask angrily, slamming the driver's side door. To the kindred I'm Persephone Simmons, parolee, WASP, and mean as fuck. "You sure you pansies know what you're doing?"_

"_Relax, Perci." Star O'Day soothes, "Harry does this all the time."_

"_How much did you bring?" Harry asks, surveying me skeptically. Harold Shumaker, WE employee, has a degree in inorganic chemistry with a major in racist bigotry and a specialization in homemade explosives. To the rest of the world he's a just a routine, run of the mill laboratory scientist with pale, pasty skin and a dulled affect from twenty years of quality control management. But we know differently-Harry here's Aryan Council. Way up there. The sort of confession that comes with a plea bargain and a shit-load of names attached. Harold Shumaker is our ace in the hole, the reason we've been hanging on so long. I should have taken my promotion a month ago, moved into a permanent desk job, but they needed someone on the inside…and that was me. Brotherhood already knew my alias, my face, and they'd learned to trust me. And once the Council gets involved it becomes conspiracy to commit murder and a hate crime…and all the families under his command-over two hundred neo-nazi hatemongerers in our streets and schools-can be charged together under the Dent statute._

_Dent. Harvey Dent. Good man. Good lawyer-if there is such a thing. This is my last op, last tour of the street, my last chance to get the scum out of our city before shifting through paperwork until I turn 65. This one's for him. "20 liters. That good enough?"_

"_20 liters?" Harry muses darkly. "No way in Hell. I told you she's a cop."_

_My heart freezes, but Star vouches for me. "Harry, she's one of us. I'm telling you, Perci wouldn't betray us-"_

"_You can't buy that much. You can't. No way. No way." Harry mutters. "How'd you do it?" He asks, stepping forward aggressively. "How the hell you get so much without being flagged?"_

"_You don't get it, do you Harry? Any woman can buy acetone. Real simple-like." Star giggles. "Walk in with a manicure and say you work for a nail salon or something like that, chat 'em up real good and they let you buy in bulk-"_

"_Like they fucking believed that." Harry adds darkly, eying me up and down from my black leather soles to my bleached fohawk. At the moment I look like a dope-pushing, butch-lesbo feminazi dominatrix…and suddenly the reason behind Connolly's utter terror of me becomes crystal clear: he's never met me, just Perci. _

"_Monkey working the counter didn't argue." I state, brows arched. "I think she was glad to get rid of me." _

_Star busts into peals of obnoxious laughter. "Oh, Perci! You're just too good! She's real good, ain't she Harry? How's that for ironic-blow 'em up with their own acetone! That's what I like about you." She gushes. "I like your sense of humor."_

_You like irony? Then just wait 'til you get cuffed, fuckhead, I seethe. I might just let Cripus Allen do it. As their arresting officer he'll have to appear at their trial-and no jury in America will be able to ignore their hate. Hell, no judge will put up with it, either. _

_Harry's got a make-shift bomb factory built in the subway exterior, right under the exhaust vents, which at one point prevented tunnel-workers from carbon monoxide poisoning. It used to be one of Gambol's meth labs, Star babbles excitedly as we get to work, but now the kindred are putting it to a more 'patriotic' use. For hours I listen to her sugary diatribe, voicing my agreement with grunts and fuck, yeah's. I can swear like a sailor and not feel a thing but there's only so many times you can stomach the word nigger before you want to wash your mouth out with bleach. Hell, Bear was black. I trusted my life to him. And Art, and Crispus Allen…_

_Hours-or is it days?-later my nose is still stinging from chemical vapors, but the coughing fits have gotten better now that we're above ground. We've donned bland, nondescript grey uniforms and piled into the Ford to deliver the payload, now disguised as a benign cardboard box loaded on a pallet with at least thirty others, all filled with canned goods and school supplies for the community pantry. Amerikaans' has a donation delivery dock, manned by volunteer staff with rigorous background checks and covered by heavy security. But even then the Brotherhood has a man on the inside, an ESOL teacher in deep undercover, helping to teach these people our language and culture while plotting to blow them to Hell. And that's why we haven't bagged these motherfuckers yet. No one likes the idea of these explosives getting inside the campus but we have to wait for the drop. We've got Harry now-Harry and everyone else under him. But if we don't catch the Inside Man…it'll only be a matter of time before this happens again. And if Mortalis taught me one thing it's that trying to stop one solitary terrorist is a whole hell of a lot harder than going after a cell. _

_We pull out of the abandoned station, and suddenly the game is on. The board is set, and the pieces are beginning to move. Lawless and Connolly pull onto the street behind us. I watch in the rearview mirror, keeping tabs on the unmarked car. He's following close, but not too close, going slow and changing lanes to stay about six cars behind me. If I hadn't known he'd be tailing, I might never have spotted him. _

_And there it is-the dichotomously bright-colored Amerikaans Community Center nestled safely within its complex of chain link and barbed wire. Security comes out, and Star babbles excitedly about 'charitable donations', and suddenly we're through. The trap is shrinking around us like a net. We pull to a park beside the loading dock, and out of my peripheral vision I see Lawless' vehicle waved boredly through security behind us. _

_A small crowd of volunteers and donators mill around the docks, unloading used clothing, non-perishables, and carton after carton of back-to-school supplies for the ESL students. Star and I clamor up onto the bed, handing down box after cardboard box with painstaking care until our hands are chapped and sore. Harry packed the pallet, and although I tried to memorize the bomb's location with Star's haphazard unloading already it's impossible for me to tell if it's still on the truck or not. _

_Shit._

_Lawless and Connolly are out of their car, dully hauling crate after crate of non-perishables from the trunk. I give the signal: straighten my back, take a long, drawn out stretch. Translation: I don't know where the fuck the bomb is._

"_Careful with that!" Lawless reprimands his partner sternly. Roger that, proceed with caution. Even over Star's continuing babble I hear Connolly's quizzical retort. At least one of them got the message…_

_And finally. Three volunteers approach us. One black. Two white: middle-aged man and a mixed-race teenager wearing a delinquent's orange traffic vest, doing his community service hours. The net is narrowing. "Need some help?" _

_The unidentified man and Harry shake hands. He climbs up, begins to help us unload. I've got you now, motherfucker. I'm milliseconds away from telling Bradley to spring the trap when out of nowhere the shit hits the fan in monumental proportions. Star's slate-green eyes go wide, and even Harry's stoicism is momentarily breached. I wheel. _

…_And everything was going so well. Through a gap in the gathered throng I make out the shape of a squad car sitting in the lot. 29 presinct. "It's empty." Star whispers. But before any of us can breathe a silent prayer of relief all Hell breaks loose. A uniformed cop breezes out the loading dock entrance, stops twenty feet from us, then pulls a goddamn cigarette to his lips and lights up. _

_Oh, fuck._

_Star lets out a whispered squeal. My heart begins to hammer. Norton. Sergeant Sean Norton. I did WATCHDOG training under him-told him a million times that smoking would be the death of him. But he's not Homicide, he's standard beat. He knows my face, my rank, my liquor preferences…but he's not cleared for this Op. Norton would know me from a hundred yards away, but there's no way he'd ever know I was undercover—undercover with a bunch of racist maniacs who'd kill him as soon as look at him. And now he's twenty feet from us. Don't see me, Norton. Don't see me. Please God, don't see me…_

_Too late. Norton's dark face brightens in recognition, spread into a wide, beaming smile and there's no way I can wave him off. I try to make eye contact, plead his silence…but no avail. "Hey," Norton calls, squashing the cigarette before looking both ways and jogging slowly across the parking lot. "What's with the hair-?"_

_Don't panic. Stay calm. You can still get through this…"You know this nigger?" Harry asks in alarm. _

"_He's Norton. My fucking Parole officer." I grunt, loud enough for Norton to hear. But if Harry buys the lie, it's not for long. Sean Norton's cheerful face widens in a bemused smile. "Paltron? What the Hell-?" _

"_Paltron?" Harry asks sharply, wheeling on Star. "You told me her name was __Simmons-"_

_The world freezes. Time drags to a halt. _

_Going undercover takes acting skills. Quick wit. Improv. A mistake can be made in a matter of milliseconds…and a millisecond is all it takes. Norton looks from me to Harry; Harry looks from me to Norton. And for one millisecond, one barely perceptible millisecond there's a bright, dawning light of comprehension in Norton's dark eyes-_

_The game is up. Harry knows._

_No time. The world moves in slow motion. Harry draws. Star and the yet-unidentified suspect both scream. I drop the box and jump from the bed. But it's too late. Too late. There's an earsplitting KRACK! and the white, wide eyes of Sean Norton roll back as his body sprawls lifelessly to the curb in a graceful, deliberate arc. Pandemonium. People scream. Pedestrians run. Children crying mothers shrieking-_

_Shots. Shouts. Lawless and security have taken refuge behind the unmarked car and for a hellish minute this place is the fucking OK corral. Glass shatters from the Ford's windows and I throw myself to the ground. Norton's dead. As dead as hell. Took a 9mm through the frontal lobe and his brains are splashed all over the pavement-_

"_You're a cop!" Star screams hysterically. "I trusted you!" Her shot goes wild, the rear tire bursts. "You're a cop like your nigger friend and you're gonna go the way he did-"_

_A bullet rips through the side of the truck, and hot gasoline soaks me like piss. I roll under the truck again. "Star, don't shoot!" God, if the tank blows-_

"_You're a liar, and, and a bitch, and, and a traitor-!" Star sobs. She's distraught. Crazed. We've got God knows how many civilians in this lot, God knows how many inside and now we're staging a shoot out around a volatile explosive. _

"_Don't fire!" I shout into the mike. "For God's sake don't fucking fire-!" _

_KRACK! Ping! The side-view mirror shatters above my head. I shout to Lawless again but even through the rush of adrenaline and the haze of smoke and rising gas fumes something's off. Wrong trajectory. I look up, on top the building and there. There he is-it wasn't the white volunteer at all. I was wrong about our Inside Man. She isn't a man…she's a woman, and now she's crouched on the edge of the fire escape, shooting into the crowd-_

_That man-the volunteer-our wrong suspect doesn't live to ever know, laugh, joke to his kids and wife at home that he was mistaken for a terrorist. Even crouched behind the truck he takes a hit, feet from me, straight to the heart and there's a belch, a bubble, a bellows of blood erupting from his chest and mouth, now two gaping, scarlet maws in a spreading sea of ghastly pale._

_I roll. Fire a three round burst up to the fire escape and the shooter's head explodes into a fountain of blood. Muscles clench in death and the dead hand fires more rounds as the body plummets the sickening seven stories down. Star lets out a keening wail and her eyes blaze in murderous rage. Across the lot a gasoline tank explodes-_

_Shrapnel. Black smoke. Flying bullets. Fire. All it takes is one spark and the Ford will blow with the bomb insidenearbytooclose and we'll all be as dead as Hell. Harry knows it. His eyes are cool, disinterested, surveying me and the Ford with calm detachment. In that moment I realize Harold Shumaker is the sickest, worst kind of coward. He's afraid to fail-but he's not afraid to die. This rat-bastard wants to be martyred for his cause. He wants to be remembered. And someone has to stop him-_

_Black smoke billows. Star's still screeching. She's oblivious to the chaos, obvious to the danger, oblivious to everything but me…and I'm still under the goddamned truck-_

_She's fired at least two shots. She's got four bullets left-_

…_But all it takes is one._

_Hell, shit, damn and fuck. "Don't fire! For God's sakes, Lawless, don't fire!" Again I roll from under the Ford, shattered safety glass tears my face, my arms, my palms as I jump from the boiling pavement-_

_KRACK! _

_Security's closing in. Rushing across the lot. All running to their deaths if I can't stop Harry. KRACK! Star shoots again, misses me by millimeters-_

_There's another KRACK! Burning pain. Hot blood. I fall to my knees. Above me Harry Shumaker is wreathed in smoke and flames, as serpentine and sinister as the devil himself. He raises his pistol to the Ford, thin lips pressed in a cruel smile, cold eyes boring straight into mine-_

_Heartbreak. Rage. Despair. No way I can get him in time. I can't stop him. For the second time in my life I know what utter hopelessness is. The difference is in Warizistan I got to die saving my unit…this time it doesn't matter. It won't make any fucking difference. His finger's already on the trigger, and even if I get him everyone'll still get blown to hell-_

"_Paltron, look out!" Out of the ashes Aaron Scott Lawless appears, one burly shoulder knocking Harry's aim astray and the other raising his service pistol to the woman behind me-_

_KRACK! two bullets fire at once, Harry's shot spinning wildly into the pavement and Lawless' disappearing above me straight into Star O'Day's left breast. She falls in a spurt of scarlet. Harry disappears into the plumes of smoke, and I don't have it in me to shoot blind. Not even now. Not when there's kids and civies who can get caught in the cross-fire-_

_I swear. Clamor to my feet, hot blood oozing down my side. I press my fingers and instantly regret it. Bullet nicked my ribs, just a gentle graze, but it hurts like fire. "Lawless?" I choke. "Lawless!" Smoke hangs like acrid fog, and through the haze I hear weeping, screams, and the bitter blare of sirens in the distance. FD on their way to cool things off a bit-_

_And finally I find them. Star O'Day is dead, and Lawless stands above the twitching corpse, remorse eating through his rage. "You okay?" He asks gruffly. _

"_Flesh wound. What took you so fucking long?" I gasp. _

"_You know how hard it is to stop security pukes from shooting in response to gunfire?" he snarls. "Especially ones from South Africa? These guys are all ex-paramilitary. I had to confiscate guns. It was a fucking nightmare." _

_But I know him better than this. It's Star. Star the bitch O'Day…or what's left of her. "You had to shoot her. You didn't have a choice." I say softly. "It's not your fault."_

_Lawless sighs. "It's still shitty." And that's Lawless for you. Woman plots to murder immigrants and small children and he still feels bad for killing her. "Guys are supposed to protect women."_

"_And women are supposed to protect little kids," I add darkly, edging the gun away from her limp hands with my foot. "Guess you're even."_

_He's silent after that for a long, long while. "Where's Connolly?" I venture, afraid to know the truth. Goddamn bitch, I berate myself, getting a rookie involved in this clusterfuck-_

"_Told him to stay with the car." His turn to ask the questions. And he asks The Question-the one that Gordon and IA will keep repeating for weeks to come: how the Hell did you fuck this up? "What the hell went wrong?"_

"_Norton." I grunt._

"_Norton? Wait-Sergeant Norton? He was in on this-?"_

"_No." I state. "He blew my cover. He's dead." _

"_Dead," Lawless repeats in hollow disbelief._

"_Dead. Harry shot him. Where the fuck is Harry?" I groan._

"_He can't leave the campus," Lawless says decisively. "My bet's on the loading dock-"_

_I groan. "Lawless, that'll take him inside-"_

"_Reinforcements are on the way. We've got SWAT coming, Milton and Bradley've already called up the building plans and Allen and Montoya are already here-"_

"_No time." I hiss. "You can bet the Feds'll want in on this one, Lawless. And once they call jurisdiction they'll try to handle it their way. Negotiators. They don't know him. I do. Harry wants to die. Wants to be a martyr. You can't negotiate with a bastard like that. He'll kill himself, Lawless. Kill himself and any one else he possibly can and we can kiss our evidence goodbye-"_

"_He's might have hostages in there, Paltron." Lawless argues. "Kids. The two of us can't handle that. And he's still got help on the inside-"_

_I shake my head. "Negative. The bitch is dead."_

"_What? Who?" Lawless demands._

"_Lisa Sharpe, the Kindergarten teacher." Lawless swears vehemently-he interviewed her himself, gave her the clear. "If the shot didn't kill her the fall did. Harry's all alone now and he knows it. Lawless, we've got to get in there."_

"_If I go in there I shoot to kill." Lawless warns._

"_We need him alive." God knows I want to blow his racist brains out. But it'd be easy. Too easy. Make him a martyr. And I'm not going to let that happen. You're going to die in prison, Harry. Lethal injection, old age, shanked by a cell mate I don't really give a damn. But you're going to die there, friendless, alone, and disgraced. _

"_I need those kids protected." A look of anguish crosses Lawless' face. "I can't-I saw one go down right in front of me and I, I can't watch that again. If you had a kid at home you'd understand-"_

_The scars on my stomach sear white-hot and the pain of my ribs is nothing, nothing compared to this—and then it's gone. "I'm a better shot. You do the talking. Distract him. I'll take him down."_

"_Paltron-" _

_You'd do everything you possibly could for your kid at home, Lawless. You'd rush right in there regardless of who told you to stand down. You're either a parent or you're not. I reactivate my mic. "Bradley! The loading dock! How many exits out of it?"_

"_Uh…three." Eugene's voice is tinny through the speakers. "The garage bay, and two interior doors. Both lead to the storage room, both on the North wall."_

"_And exits from the storage room?" Lawless asks._

"_Two. Dead center West-wall. Also an emergency exit on the left corner, South side but Startech security's monitoring, no reports of a breach-"_

"_North wall." I tell Lawless. "He's already in."_

"_and after that you've got the basement hallway, a flight of stairs that's maintenance only and the elevator shaft, which is currently out of order due to remodeling on the first floor—not that any of this matters since you're waiting for SWAT-"Eugene drones as we storm the bay doors. "-at least, in theory-"_

"_He'll be in the elevator." Lawless whispers as we prowl slowly down the north wall towards the storage room. "Trying to make it work-" I don't have time to disagree. KRACK! Ping! A bullet ricochets off the stolid steel doorframe not two inches above my head. We drop to the floor, fall back. Lawless swears. "The Son of a bitch is covering the entry-way," he snarls. "Now what?"_

"_That's two," I grunt, rubbing the fohawk down so I don't make such a goddamn easy target. "Two shots at least." A plan-hastily devised and crude-begins to form._

"_Don't be an idiot, Paltron." Lawless chides. "Counting bullets only works in the movies. You have no idea how many bullets he has left, if he has more ammo-"_

"_But I do know Harry, and he wants to kill as many people as possible. He couldn't make it upstairs, so he's stuck with us. He'll want me, Lawless. But he also wants to be a martyr. Listen—Listen! You go in first and I'll cover you. If he doesn't shoot we know he's running low, saving them for when it counts. I'm a traitor, and if he's running low he'll save his last bullets for me, then himself."_

"_That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Lawless mumbles. "But for lack of a better idea let's hope to God he's running low." _

_On the count of three Lawless dives through the doorway, crouching low while I fire above. No retaliatory shots. Either Harry's fucking smart, or he's running low. Lawless beckons me, and I join him behind a dingy forklift and look out at the crowded menagerie of cardboard and wooden shipping crates. I have to get my bearings…_

"_Harry?" Lawless calls. "Harry Shumaker? We just want to talk."_

"_The fuck you do." Harry's voice snarls. "You've chosen the wrong side. You're blood traitors. Both of you! Standing up for this filth and garbage when you should be protecting American citizens-"_

"_Harry, your little stunt here just killed American citizens. Thirteen of them. One of them was a fucking five year old." Lawless states evenly. "That really the sort of thing your Brotherhood wants to glorify? Killing kids?"_

_It's a grid. A simple, warehouse grid. Steel shelves are stacked to the ceiling, a good twenty-some feet above us. Ten lines run north/south, each cut twice by east/west avenues. Harry's muffled voice calls out from somewhere further up the lines. "We're the Aryan Brotherhood! We look out for our own! We'll kill anyone who threatens our rights!"_

"_Keep him talking." I warn Lawless. "No matter what just keep him talking so I can find him."_

"_Just look around for a soap-box." Lawless says wryly. "Get going. And if I die-"_

"_I know. You'll kill me." He winks. I crawl around the corner, and he's lost from view. We're mired in the Minotaur's labyrinth, and Theseus begins the hunt. I go north, along the shelves, wait to cross the east/west avenue until Lawless has Harry's full attention-  
_

"_That's why you've got a Government, Harry. Our Government does that." Lawless' voice rings from my left. "The Government is there to protect our rights-"_

"_The American Government is a laughingstock. It's a front! It's run by Jews, Communists, and International Corporations! Lobbyists! Lawyers!" And go! Face down crawling knees and elbows I'm across the first east/west junction. Harry's voice is forward, to my right…_

"_You're right, Harry." Lawless soothes. "You're right. We've got corruption and special interest groups and big businesses running our country and threatening our safety. You're absolutely right. Why don't you come out so we can talk about it?"_

"_You're just a pig-headed policeman. You're just a fucking pig! What would you know!" Again! I cross the second great divide. Harry's voice is directly to my right…but how many aisles over? I run to the end of the second tier, Harry's voice behind me now. "You're government scum! You uphold their lies! Their affirmative action!" I climb the northern end of the shelf, peer back down. Harry's not hiding in this aisle…_

"_I know you're not a terrorist, Harry." Lawless says gently. From across the room I watch with bated breath as first his upraised arms, then entire figure comes into view, standing up and stepping out from behind the forklift. Damnit, Lawless! _

"_Get back!" Harry shouts at Lawless' advancing form. The diversion buys me time. I sprint right to the third north/south aisle. "Stay back!" But Harry doesn't shoot. He's running low. Very low. So low he won't risk shooting an unarmed man. You can run, Harry, but you can't hide forever. And you can't bullshit me. You're bluffing. _

"_You're not a terrorist," Lawless repeats, stepping slowly forward, hands atop his head. " And you don't want to be known as one. You're not a terrorist, Harry, you're misunderstood. The Brotherhood is misunderstood. You're a patriot, Harry. A goddamn patriot who loves his country and wants to restore her to glory but the press won't see it like that. You've got to come out. Come clean. Make sure these people don't paint you and your cause to look like terrorism-"_

"_That's only because the media is run by the Jews!" Fourth! "And the American people buy into their lies! They need us! They need us to show them the truth-" Fifth! Sixth-!_

"_Then stand trial, Harry. Come on TV. Tell the American people what it is they need to hear-"_

"_You can't fool me. You're a liar. A liar and a bloodtraitor! You're a nigger-loving Jew!" The voice is behind me now. He's in the sixth row. I hoist myself up onto the shelves, stalk him silently from above-_

"_You have to come out, Harry." Lawless continues, still stepping slowly towards the sound of Harry's ranting. "You have to save the people-"_

"_Don't come any closer!" Harry bellows. _

"_Harry, Harry," Lawless says gently, "You're not going to shoot me. You're afraid. You don't want to give up but you don't want to be a martyr either-"_

"_I'm not a coward!" Harry bawls. "I'm not afraid to die for my country-!" _

_But Harry doesn't get the chance. I drop, land feet behind him. "Drop the gun, motherfucker." I whisper. Harry wheels, raises his arm, split second decision in his gleaming, hate-filled eyes he turns the gun upon himself-_

_I fire Art's berretta. In fourteen years, she's never let me down. The shot goes true, there's a KRACK of snapping bone loud as the gun's discharge. Lawless cries my name, comes hurtling up the adjacent aisle, rounds the corner as Harry slumps to his knees, letting out a strangled scream as blood spurts from the stump of his right arm, fountains out on the wall behind him, sprays the ceiling, floor, peppers the absurd, severed limb still cradling his pistol. _

"_Jesus!" Lawless shouts, horrified, but he rushes forward, removes his belt and begins to tie a tourniquet as I stand watch, still poised to shoot. Harry is shaking, shaking, shaking in shock from loss of blood, scarlet spatters still flailing from that useless, gory stump. But something is wrong. Harry's skin is turning a mottled, purple-blue. Lawless face is deathly pale-_

"_What's going on? Lawless!"_

_His hazel eyes shut tight. "Fatty embolism." He whispers. "The shot broke his humorus. The marrow's lodged in his pulmonary artery-"_

_I don't understand. Can't understand. Lawless-my partner, doctor, friend-does nothing. "Do something!" I shout desperately. _

"_I can't." Lawless whispers. "Nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do." For sixty-seven slow seconds we watch Harold Shumaker suffocate. His blue eyes bulge, his muscles spasm, he gasps, froths, wets himself…and suddenly, he's gone. It was agonizing, humiliating, inglorious-no more, no less than he deserved. Lawless bows his head. I send a stack of boxes scattering across the floor with a vicious, vengeful kick. Let out a scream, fall to my knees panting in pain, in anger, in bloodlust. I needed Harry alive. Needed his testimony, his plea bargain, needed to bring closure to my stint in this racist Hell…but I'd be a liar to say that killing him wasn't what I really wanted. The op is blown. Blood leaks out the disembodied arm. Civilians dead, an uninvolved officer murdered, no evidences, no confessions…Four months of planning, three-hundred thousand dollars, and sixteen lives, all wasted. They called a bus, of course; but it doesn't take more than a few seconds for the EMT's to confirm it: Harold Shumaker, like Sergeant Sean Norton, like so many nameless innocents, is dead. _

_My mind is lost in a hopeless haze, too apathetic to be angry. Allen and Montoya come. Take our statements as we wait on forensics. Me, Lawless, Harry and that arm, laying obscenely in a surreal sea of scarlet. Nora and Taylor snap their pictures. Argue jurisdiction. The body belongs to the Coroner's office, but the hand-still clenched around that pistol-is holding Forensic evidence. Besides, Taylor argues, Forensics needs to do a GSR test on both the corpse's clothes and the hand to confirm that shots were indeed fired by that arm, and pre-amputation. _

_But Nora needs the arm to confirm the amputation was done pre-mortem. _

_There's only so much anyone can take. And this mother of a day just kept giving and giving and fucking giving. A fellow officer, dead. Our key witness and his conspirators, dead. Four months of undercover work, planning, all our leads, gone. And twelve civilians, all dead. Gone. Lives, time, money, effort, innocence…_

"_You think we staged this," I state, shaking in anger. "You think-after all that carnage outside-that we fucking faked this crime scene?" Lawless places a calming hand on my shoulder, but the hurt won't be assuaged._

"_Dt. Paltron, it's only your word and your partner's as to what transpired here. There were no other witnesses." Nora states coolly. "It's been my experience that partners in the GCPD tend to cover for one another."_

"_They're just covering their bases, Paltron." Lawless says. "Just taking precautions-"_

"_They're covering their asses," I sneer in disgust. _

"_What I and Dr. Taylor are doing," Nora corrects hawkishly, "is making sure evidences match the given statements allowing your names to be cleared. It's a precaution and it's necessary-all the more so because one of you has a reputation for destroying evidence and obstructing justice. Do I make myself clear?"_

"_That was extenuating circumstances!" I'm losing it, losing perspective, losing control, afraid of losing my job, losing the trust of those I depend on to make arrests, to get the evil and corruption off our streets-_

_Taylor looks taken aback. But Nora Fields doesn't even so much as blink. "Aren't they all." _

_I'm numb with fury. I don't remember the walk back outside. There was Nora and Harry and a sea of blood and a grasping limb floating in the blood-red sea…but now a reassuring voice, the smell of acrid smoke, the feel of Lawless' hands on my arms guiding me forward, away from this mess. But there's no getting away from it. No escape. The wailing sirens, the din of the press, the weeping of survivors and the gurgle of fire-hoses are the only sounds in this bleak and barren landscape-_

_My fault. It will always be my fault. _

_Haddad the Fire-Marshall is waiting for us. And Gordon, Jim Gordon. Once I called him friend, once he was my partner…now he's just my boss. One look, one downcast, wearied look of haggard, stoic patience is nearly enough to drive me to bitter tears. Gordon doesn't say anything-he doesn't have to. We hit rock bottom. Fucked up as much as possible. And nothing the brass can say or yell or suspend without pay could ever make it worse than it already is…nothing but the loss of another life._

…but perhaps not everything was wasted. Perhaps out of that wreckage something can still be salvaged. Perhaps the thirteen innocent people who died that day didn't die in vain. The Simmons identity is shot as far as an operations standpoint, but according to the DMV and social security, Persephone 'Perci' Simmons still exists. And more importantly she has department issued _credit cards_.

I open my wallet reluctantly, and pull the fake driver's license and credit cards from a hidden pocket. I find myself staring at a grotesque picture of myself-a picture of Perci Simmons, a woman and a role over the last year that I've done my best to try to forget.

_You ready for this, bitch?_ I ask her.

_Fuck yeah,_ she hisses. _Born ready._

…Then it's time for us to do some serious shopping.


	36. Venenum

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**AN: Sorry the flashbacks keep getting longer and longer. Paltron's a great character, but I miss getting to write everybody else! **

**

* * *

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**Tuesday, September 3****rd**

**16:00 EST**

**3****rd**** Avenue and Main**

Tuesday morning a downcast blonde woman in dirty, oversized men's clothes leaves the Narrows via GCPT. Around lunchtime on the opposite side of town, an outspoken brunette pharmaceuticals rep purchases a total of $1098.99 in casual wear and shoes from five fashion boutiques in Circle Center Mall while chatting candidly about her new raise. At each she pays in cash, and declines the offer of a store credit card or email updates. Then at precisely 4 pm, a well-dressed, rather feminine woman in pink pumps, white denim, and a brown, ruffle-neck cardigan appears in Gotham's business district. She's pleasantly attractive, but not ostentatious enough to turn heads. She receives faint smiles from several businessmen and gives the occasional nod in return. The only thing really remarkable about her is the silk kerchief she wears around her bald head. Most simply assume she's a cancer patient.

These three women have only one thing in common: they're all me…and no one would guess they're out for blood. The baldness is a little too memorable for my comfort. I would have preferred to stay more invisible, but the Simmons identity had only one glitch: Perci's a skinhead in her driver's license photo. It's far too ostentacious, but the DMV photo shows hardly any clothing, and at this resolution the collar of the leather jacket could be mistaken for that of a pea-coat. And when you want to buy several thousand dollars worth of camera equipment without alerting suspicions 1) you need a credit card and 2) people tend to start conversations. They remember you. Want to see you again. So if I have to be noticed, I need to plant a straw-man. I knew a lot of undercover cops who used covered jogging strollers, engagement rings, or faked pregnancies as a distraction. A bald woman with leukemia is just as memorable, sure; but once the hair's grown back in, she's nearly unrecognizable.

I don't know how much time I have—with so many Legacy victims left to ID the Coroner's office is backed up, but homicide will still take some priority. I knew from the beginning it would only a matter of time until Gordon, Lawless and Nora Fields began to put the puzzle together. I've been both cautious and careless, and I can't afford to make any more mistakes. I'm counting on these disguises to help me get through once the shit hits the fan. If the store-clerks at the neighborhood pharmacies recognize my picture on the air, they'll only know I bought hair-dye. Nine colors from nine stores and a do-it-yourself perm kit-all in cash-to be exact. So while the GCPD are looking for a possible very-berry- blonde/charcoal/ripe chestnut/austere auburn/midnight coal/exotic eggplant-haired woman with tight, bouncy curls, Mall security will over look the straight-haired brunette. And on the off-chance someone makes the connection, they'll only know what clothes I've bought-assuming they'll go back that far through footage. But the owner of Candidly Cameras won't recognize me at all. He'll remember a pleasant woman with leukemia who spent what would ordinarily be a large sum on new photography equipment. Her name was Persephone, and she's decided to live life to it's fullest and pursue her hobbies and dreams in case there's no tomorrow. She might remind him of someone he sees on the news, a mass murderer amongst all the other whackos plaguing his city, but he won't consider for a minute it could be her. She was nice. She was patient. She was a good customer and more importantly in his mind, who the fuck lies about having _cancer_?

* * *

**5****th ****Avenue and Main**

**16: 09 EST**

I'm well on my way to Candidly Cameras. The store has several appeals: one, it's far from home; two, I've never visited before; and three, it's near the University and has an established reputation for the avant-garde. It's the sort of place new customers come in to browse, chat, and spend large sums of money on state-of-the-art technology nearly every day.

There's only one problem-everywhere I look in the shopping district the first story windows have been smashed out. The sidewalk along the entire block is coated with fine glass particulates, and the storefronts of Louis Vuitton, Prada, Tiffany's, and Nordstrom have all been sacked. There's a faint hint of sulfur in the air, and the trees and potted plants in the medians are scorched and seared. That's when my feet cross it: white, reflective paint. Stark, harsh lines of white reflective paint tracing the outline of a human figure on the sidewalk. I look around, and the damn things are everywhere. Either some graffitist has a sick sense of humor, or fifty people died here recently, maybe more.

…Shit.

There's a newspaper stand twenty yards up the sidewalk. I walk cautiously over and purchase a copy of the Gotham City Gazette with growing dread. The ominous, bold lettering all in caps is visible through the glass: _JOKER FANS RAID GANG-RALLY_

_by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press. _I find myself involuntary sitting on the curb to read the rest.

_Last night the GCPD and the National Guard spokesmen held a joint press conference to confirm what many had already feared. On the night of August 30__h__-_

…The night I buried my Angel. All of Gotham wept.

_-more students from Gotham University staged a protest in the downtown shopping district against the continued presence of armed troops and military law in Gotham City. But what began as a peaceful protest quickly escalated into a mayhem of lootings, riots, and heckling of the Police and National Guard forces deployed to monitor the situation when a gang-believed to be Rulz's-invaded the scene. _

_The National Guard confided last night that volleys of tear gas and rubber bullets were repeated employed against the growing mob, as well as no less than fifty warnings and reprimands to cease and desist. Several students then voluntarily surrendered to Police custody. The arrival of more protestors, this time wearing grease-paint which Police believe to be in ode to criminal mastermind The Joker, added to the growing chaos and unrest. These so-called 'Joker fans' were led by a single man dressed in familiar purple, who Commissioner Gordon now denies was ever the Joker himself. Efforts were made to capture this man alive to bring in for interrogation, but the Joker fans resisted arrest. Four GCPD officers were bludgeoned to death and three more remain hospitalized with severe burns at an undisclosed location. The Commissioner confirms their conditions, although serious, have been stabilized. The Joker fans continued to aggress not only fellow protestors and cops, but purposefully engaged the National Guard as well with home-made explosives, fire-works, and smoke-bombs. Governor Stephanie Miller gave explicit orders to contain the situation and bring the perpetrators in for interrogation and NOT to engage this mixed crowd of civilians, gang members and Joker fanatics with lethal force. _

_However, after a military escort vehicle caught fire and subsequently set off all rounds stored within, several soldiers of the National Guard-who at this point remain anonymous and in military custody-then panicked, believing they were being fired upon by the crowd. This led to the firing of live ammunition, which was only met with more retaliatory violence against the occupying forces, and volley after volley of live rounds were then fired into the frenzied mob until it was dispersed._

_Rumors of the Batman's presence at this bloodbath remain unsubstantiated by the Police. As the Coroner's office is still backed up from the overwhelming death toll of the Legacy and the identification of the Joker fans was deemed top priority in hopes of a lead to the whereabouts of the Joker himself, Commissioner Gordon could offer no hope to parents of missing students as to when the bodies of their children may be identified and/or returned to them. "We recognize this event as one more in a string of recent tragedies," the Commissioner stated. "I offer condolences to the families of the missing victims, and again strongly urge the public to cooperate with the curfew enforced by the National Guard in this time of unrest. This curfew is not a request, it is a command. The deaths of these innocent students is a tragedy, yes, but one which the GCPD is inclined to believe entirely preventable."_

_Governor Miller, who authorized the presence of the National Guard in Gotham City, could not be reached for questioning on this horrific turn of events, the second in so many weeks. The people of Gotham are left to wonder, then, whether this military occupation will be prove protective, or simply continue to be a cause of contention and growing civil unrest._

…and suddenly, Christopher Holden's anger at Baxter for concealing the presence of these nut-jobs in our city doesn't even begin to staunch the ire in my veins. Gordon-Holden-Lawless was right: This-all of this-could have been prevented…and these people will never trust the government again. And I'd be willing to bet if those students had known these fanatics existed and what they wanted, not a one of them would have left their dorms that night. I scan the article again, hands white and shaking. _Purposefully engaged the National Guard…_

Suicidal. Fanatical. And yet they did it. Did it to create public unrest. Enrage the people against the soldiers trying to protect them. Discredit the Police. Discredit the government…these Joker fans worship Chaos and Anarchy; and if it's an urban war they're after, they're well on their way to achieving it.

The paper crinkles in protest in my lap as I curl over. Place my face on my knees, hug them closer. My heart is racing, racing so fast it hurts, my head aches and throbs and I'm shaking, shaking inconsolably.

Minutes pass. The fit is over. A childish hand reaches out from beyond the grave, lightly brushes the tears clinging to my lashes. Angel. I sniff. Pull a tissue from my purse, wipe my nose, my streaming eyes, wonder how the fuck the business district was still so full of dry-eyed, self-absorbed attorneys and stock-brokers…how the Hell the shops on this street could still be open…

But cold, hard logic wins out. Gordon is right. Just like with the schools, if these shops were to close, they'd only show the Joker and his followers how much power they had. But to stay open, to remain open despite what happened here just four days ago is to reject every semblance of our own humanity.

…Either way, we lose.

And either way, my war on Gotham can't come soon enough.

* * *

**5****Th**** Avenue and Main**

**16:23 EST**

There's a smaller article on the inside, page A12, that catches my eye as I fold the paper to tuck in my-Persephone's-new purse: _Police Investigate Subway Shooter_. I scan it quickly, searching desperately for the important detail: leads…

_Police have no leads as yet, but Gang Task Force remains confident these murders fall in the domain of gang violence, either discord among the Latin Kings or the retaliatory work of a rival gang. _

I let out my bated breath in relief. Just keep thinking that, I tell them. I'll have to make it believable-and with Rulz's involvement here four nights ago, I know who I will frame-

A shadow falls across me. Doesn't leave. I glance surreptitiously at the cast on the sidewalk to see the figure of a woman, standing above me. I fold the paper, tuck it into my purse, and ignore her.

"The Gazette?" My stalker calls hawkishly. "Over five-hundred thousand copies sold a day. Do you know how many trees are cut each year for this paper alone?"

I turn to face her in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"It's a blatant waste of natural resources! Trees are an important part of our ecosystem-" she continues passionately, green eyes flaming under her ridiculously red hair. "There are countless outlets of electronic media where these same articles can be read, free of charge, sponsored by advertisers and powered by renewable resources such as wind power-"

Renewable resources? Wind power? Ecosystem? Just what my day needed. A brush with a goddamned _tree-hugger._

She continues her rant, oblivious to my growing ire. She's young, fiery, gorgeous and shapely, dressed to a T under her white lab coat and carrying empty canvas shopping bags with the ostentatious label _Go Greener_. She's also drawing a Hell of a lot of attention to us, and it's making me uneasy. The bitch is wearing an ID badge of some sort-Gotham University, just blocks away. Dr. Pamela Isley, it reads, Biosciences Faculty. I decide to send her scampering back there.

"Look, Dr. Isley," I begin considerately, "I'm sure your points are valid but in case you'd forgotten, four nights ago a bunch of teenage thugs raided this very block, bludgeoned four cops to death and killed students from your university with the help of some fanatic suicide-bombers before getting the living fuck shot out of them by the National Guard and you're asking me to give a damn about a fucking _tree_?" I snarl. Our growing audience breaks into scattered applause.

But this Isley remains unperturbed by their withering glares. "Not just a tree, 200 million trees! 200 million trees a year! Just for the simple pleasure of newspapers in this country alone! Do you-do any of you-have any idea what sort of impact that has on our national environment? What sort of message that level of carelessness sends to our youth-?"

Probably not any less careless than yours, I think scathingly, for once just turning and walking away from a fight. The small crowd hisses and boos, jeers her as she tries to argue with my retreating back. I continue walking, and the further from her I get the more my smoldering rage gives way to pity. I've been there. Been so blinded by a personal vendetta that I've overlooked the suffering of the innocent. Been poisoned by my own anger and bitterness…

_The Feds do role-call. Everyone security shows checked into the Amerikaans campus has to be accounted for. Smoke. Ash. Pungent fumes of gasoline. Finally the count is in: Thirteen dead. Sixteen, if you count the Aryan fuckheads._

…_Two missing. Sixteen year-old delinquent 'volunteer' Raanan Frye, and one Jimmy Connolly. A goddamn kid and a goddamned rookie cop. As if this day couldn't get any worse. "I told him to stay with the car," Lawless says furiously. "Where the hell is he?" _

_Allen radios him, and the sound of static greets us from the melted asphalt. Lawless' anger turns to cold, hard panic. _

"_Shit," Montoya says, peeling the plastic up with stringy tar. "Someone go check with EMS. See if he's being treated or something-"_

_I radio tech support. "Bradley, do you have anything else to trace him? Cell phone?"_

"_No, Kid doesn't have one registered. I'm tracking his mic now…"I put a hand on Lawless' arm. "They're tracing his mic," I tell him. But seconds, then minutes tick by, and still Bradley maintains radio silence. Lawless snatches the radio from my hand and calls Eugene again._

"_Bradley, can you raise him?" He repeats sternly._

"_Um…negatory. He's not responding. I'm showing no movement. Registering no movement. I'm uh, I'm calling a code for Officer Down-"Within seconds, the 10-00's been issued. Almost everyone left inside the Amerikaans perimeter goes silent, listening. "The missing officer is Connolly, Jimmy from Homicide division. Be advised officer is Caucasian male, plainclothes-" _

"_I told him to stay put," Lawless swears again. "I told him to stay with the fucking car-"_

"_This isn't your fault," I try to tell him, but I'm too angry myself to counter his frustration. _

"_Reception on the signal is poor, advise a search radius of seven square blocks, alerting EMS-" Bradley's voice comes again from the scanner. The gathered throng of GCPD, EMS and FD workers heads out, splitting into two man pairs, Allen and Montoya at the lead. We follow, heading East at a steady jog, scanning every alleyway, storefront, and suspicious person…and at this rate it'll be Goddamn Christmas before we even leave the block. _

"_He'll turn up." _

"_He's a goddamn rookie gone missing in the Narrows, Paltron." The weight of that responsibility lays heavy on his shoulders. Welcome to the fucking club, Lawless, I think._

"_Then it's a good thing he was undercover, " I counter. "If he was in uniform he'd be dead already." _

_Lawless snorts. "Yeah. Thanks for that."_

_Rotting garbage, hot sun, crowd of sleeping drunks and homeless. Next alley. Interrupt a drug deal, send six men bolting. No sign of Connolly. Lawless' worry escalades by the second. A feeling of numbness and resignation begins to eat through me: I lost another one. A fellow cop, just like Norton…only this one wasn't a Sergeant, wasn't a veteran. He was just a novice, a recruit. A rookie…_

…_just a goddamned Kid._

"_Kid, this is Lawless. If you can hear me pick up the damn mic-" Lawless swears, keeping a running stream of chatter on Connolly's wavelength as we search the streets. More drunks. More garbage. More suspicious, hooded eyes watching us from every direction as the public slowly realizes I'm not a freakish whore with a john and makes us for what we truly are: cops. Doors and windows are pulled shut. CLOSED signs are placarded in every business window. No one wants to talk to us. No one wants to see us. No one wants to help us…no one here gives a shit about a missing person if it means pissing off the Mob. Especially not for a rookie cop. _

_I can't stand the tension any longer. I radio Bradley. "Any sign of him?"_

"_Negative. Allen just reported in. They're about 6 blocks West of you guys. They've got nothing-"_

_This approach is getting us nowhere. I broaden the search parameters. "Anything at all radioed in from this neighborhood? Anything at all from the 29 dispatch?"_

"_Uh, negative on the police waves…but EMS got a call, responding to a little old lady getting knocked down, she's en route to Methodist with a suspected broken hip and wrist, but it wasn't even a mugging-" In the Narrows? It's got to be a clue. I stop cold._

"_Where?"_

"_Two blocks North of your current position-"_

"_How long ago?" I pant._

"_What?" _

"_How long ago was the call radioed in?" Think, Eugene, damnit! "Was it before or after EMS got the call for-" for our complete and utter fucking fiasco. But Bradley understands my silence, and for once has nothing witty to say._

"_Right after. Right fucking after." He swears. "Get your asses over there now-"_

_I call for Lawless. "We've got a lead, if we hurry there might still be witnesses-"We take off at a sprint down the dirty, pockmarked street. A slick, silver sportscar begins to tail us, and thugs bare white teeth and broad grins as they crank up their rap-shit music to bone-jarring levels, and the mandatory catcalls begin:_

"_Get a load of that piece of ass!"_

"_Work it, baby!"_

"_Ditch ginger and come ride with us!"_

_Wordlessly Lawless takes the curb, for my protection…or theirs? "Do. NOT. Engage." He growls vehemently, voice barely audible over the deafening thump-thum-thumpas of the blaring subwoofers. Theirs. We're outnumbered, four to two, and they have the advantage of shelter in the car. But I'm sick. Heartsore. I've got a missing officer on my guilt-laden conscience, and these wannaberapgangsters and all their rims and bling can just suck my dick. _

_I-Perci-turns, flashes them a vicious smile. Much to their surprise she saunters slowly into the street, and bends low beside the driver's side door, one booted leg resting on the hood. She's greeted with whistles, hawt damns and fuck, yeahs. "You boys like that?" she asks dangerously, "Then you're going to love this-" Seamlessly she draws, puts the barrel of the Berretta straight to the driver's shaved head and digs it in deep. Even drowning in that deafening excuse for music their world goes suddenly silent. Someone wets their pants. She pulls the trigger-_

…_and Click-! The safety catches. _

"_That's right, fucktards," Perci seethes with a flash of my badge, "I'm a cop. So you've got exactly seven seconds to get your punk asses out of my sightline or you're all about to 'reach for something', do I make myself clear?" _

_Tires screech. Rubber burns. Their music dies. No shots are fired-those goons put the pedal to the floor and never look back. Smart move. Maybe Perci was bluffing…maybe she wasn't. "You good?" Lawless finally asks, lowering his weapon in turn._

"_Better," I consent, wrestling that reckless anger in check. "Now let's go find that Kid. And if he's alive, I'm going to kill him."_

_The next block our search is rewarded. All the storefronts are lit, but no one seems to be inside. "They're all empty." I whisper. But Lawless shakes his head. _

"_They're all hiding. Something went down here." We draw, and shove through the glass doors of a 7/11. Screams greet us from the floors, under the counter and behind the back displays. "GCPD!" Lawless shouts, holding his badge high for the frightened crowd to see. "I'm Detective Lawless, this is my partner Paltron, we're looking for info on-"_

"_Thank God you came!" A woman squeals from under the counter. "It was over there-somewhere over there-"_

"_You saw her get knocked down?" I question._

"_The gunshots!" She nearly shouts. "I mean, you pigs are here about the gunshots, right?" The hooker pouts, crawling from under the display and eying us doubtfully. Shit. Gunshots. It's the Narrows. Maybe it means fucking nothing…_

…_Maybe it means my missing officer just got himself killed._

"_Gunshots?" Lawless pants in alarm. "Hell yeah, honey. Sure thing. Where'd they come from?"_

"_I dunno. Further down the road. Maybe like a block away? Three of 'em. I heard 'em and I got down, you know?"_

"_And you called the cops?" He asks. She raises a stern eyebrow in approbation. _

"_Do I look goddamn stupid to you, sugar?" She says stiffly. "Go do your job. Let me do mine." Lawless swears again. We head off at a run, still trying desperately to raise Connolly on the mic. _

_Shouting. Yelling. Crying until our voices are hoarse. Bradley's sending the team our way, but if Connolly took three shots-if Connolly's still alive-we're running out of time.  
"Kid!" Lawless' grating voice breaks. "Kid!"_

_And that's when I hear it. "Lawless, shut it!" Static. "Stop yelling and turn on your mic again-"_

"_What-?"_

"_Radio him but don't say anything!" He does. Static. High, screeching whine. _

"_What the Hell is that?" Lawless asks._

"_It's feedback." Bradley's voice interrupts us. "Interference from the mics. It means he's close." Lawless pales, and I'm sickened. Bradley's wrong-what it means is he's not responding-_

_We round the next alleyway. Overturned trash cans, rotting garbage, rats and a scattering flock of pigeons greet us. Half-way through there's a chain link security fence lined with razor wire-probably some drug-dealer's idea of security. And slumped at the base of that impassable wall is the shape of a human body, sprawled in a pool of scarlet. "Kid?" Lawless shouts. "Kid-!"_

_No time no thoughts I scream into the mic. "Bradley, send a bus!"_

"_You've got him?" But something's wrong. Off. There's too many limbs sprawled across the pavement. Four arms, four legs-but 16 people are dead and an officer is missing there were shots fired I don't care don't have time to care-_

_Blood is plastered over Connolly's pale face. His clothes are soaked, slick and dark. His eyes are hollow, empty, unresponsive-he's either dead, or in deep shock-_

"_Kid?" Lawless calls shakily, hands pressing, groping, trying to find that gaping wound to staunch the flow. "Kid?"_

"_Bradley, call a bus!" I shout, fingers slimy with hot blood, probing, pressing, checking that lifeless face, neck, and chest for punctures- "He's got a pulse!" _

_Dark eyes blink. Roll to face me. They're hollow, dazed, only now registering life, movement-_

"_Kid, can you hear me? Kid?" Lawless asks, "Kid?"_

_He makes a chirping cough. Whispers something. "Connolly?" I ask, cupping his face. "Connolly!"_

"_It's Latin," Lawless says, dread, relief and realization dawning on his worried face. "Sacrament-"_

_Slowly I understand. The extra limbs. The blood. Arms crossed over his chest, clutching a wretched burden, looking like a goddamn Kid himself, as shocked as Abel to have struck down Cain in self-defense Jimmy Connolly holds the dead boy tightly, places tender lips to those unhearing ears, plants a gentle kiss in blood-soaked hair and whispers a shaky prayer for his soul._

_Oh shit, oh fuck, oh hell. I found my missing officer…and the missing volunteer as well. _

"_Bradley, send a bus NOW!" But Lawless simply shakes his head: Frye's dead. Dead as hell, and Jimmy Connolly just made it to the IAB shit list, and psych Hell. He's soaked in blood and splattered in brains-a kid's brains. There's pieces of bone, yellow marrow and greasy chunks of flesh like vomit in his lashes, his brows, his hair. His first real day on the job he watched 15 people die in a blown undercover op and now he's shot and killed a kid. Shot a kid and held him helplessly while he bled out in his arms._

…_and suddenly all I can think is none of this would've happened if it weren't for me. _

_Connolly curls up. Cuddles the lifeless body closer, crosses limp hands across the chest and crosses himself as well. Lawless'll be lucky if he ever comes back…Connolly'll be lucky to keep out of Arkham._

_I lift the radio, and both it and my tongue feel impossibly heavy. "Belay that, Bradley." I whisper. "We need Nora."_

_Seconds tick by. Minutes pass. We wait for CSU, and the whole time Connolly's too horrified to even weep. Lawless tries to comfort him, puts hands on his shoulders, closes Frye's eyes. "He's gone Kid," he soothes. "He's gone. There's nothing you can do. Let's get you up-"_

_Connolly shudders. "Don't touch me," he mumbles. _

"_You've got to get up." Lawless says again, pulling him effortlessly up as Connolly writhes to get free. "We've got to get your story straight before IAB gets here. Kid?"_

_But this misguided gentleness is getting us nowhere. IAB's on their way- it's time to be stern. "What the hell happened?"_

"_He wouldn't put his hands up." Connolly cringes, twisting to evade Lawless' firm grasp on his shoulders. "He wouldn't…Let. Go." He whines insistently. "Let go-"_

"_He reach for something?" Lawless coaxes gently. "You saw him reach for something?"_

"_There was the fence and he turned around, and I yelled for him to put his hands up. I said it in English, said it in Spanish, I, I, oh God, what if he didn't understand-?"_

"_But he reached for something?" I press. And that's the important part. Cop has every right to defend himself against a potential attack. First day on the range in academy they teach you to aim for the head. Three round burst. Killshot. Shoot first and sign the fucking paperwork later. Gotham City's like the Middle East-you wear the uniform long enough, and some motherfucker will take a shot at you. Only here he's not fighting for religion or independence, just fucking selling drugs. _

"_You saw him reach for something?" Lawless asks again. He's silent for a long, long time. His face is ghastly pale, still smooth-skinned and boyish, looking both as young and as dead as the mutilated corpse. He squirms pitifully under Lawless' iron grip, but Lawless is unrelenting. "But you saw him reach for something?" he demands._

"_I don't know." He finally answers, dark eyes earnest and pleading. "I, I think I just sorta panicked…" _

_Instinct. Ire. I don't know what possesses me but suddenly I heave him up by the collar. In less than a second he's slammed against the dumpster with the wind knocked out of him. I let out a snarl, "What the fuck do you mean you just fucking panicked-!" _

"_Paltron!" Lawless' voice of reason does little to deflate my anger. "Paltron, cut it out! Christ, can't you see he's in shock-!" But I'm pissed. Operation blown, officer dead, and now another civilian, too. I've been this Perci Simmons for far too long and it's taking its toll. I want to kill something, someone, make them hurt, make them bleed…make them pay. Shit. Fuck. Hell. I release my shaking white hands and Connolly falls like a puppet with cut strings, sprawling onto the concrete, face and shirt still soaking in bright, wet trails of arterial blood. I take my frustration out on a plate-glass window instead. The shattering sound is musical, and the pain-the pain!-from my bleeding fist makes me feel goddamned alive. _

_Connolly staggers clumsily back to his feet, looking utterly dazed. "I-"_

"_You are in so much shit right now." Lawless interrupts lowly, voice grating. "IAB's coming. You have to get your story straight. You defied a direct order, Kid. What the Hell were you thinking?"_

_But the boy only blinks stupidly. "Connolly!" I bark. _

"_H-h-he grabbed a box. From the pallet. While everyone else was looking away. I thought, I, I thought he was going after the bomb. Then he ran. So I chased him."_

"_Think about it, Connolly!" I snap. "Is a fucking _Jew_ likely to be helping the Aryan Brotherhood?"_

"_So you chased him." Lawless continues. "You thought he had a bomb and you chased him. By yourself. Without calling for backup."_

"_I-I dropped my radio in the parking lot-when all the shooting began-" he stammers._

"_You're a cop, not the Lone fucking Ranger." Lawless chides. "Not the Batman. We have a unit for a reason, damnit! We are not Rambo, our bodies are NOT Lethal Weapons, and we most certainly do not Die Hard! Do I make myself clear?"_

"_W-what?"_

"_It's called teamwork, Kid. And you're lucky ignoring it didn't get you killed. Next time, when I tell you to stay with the car, you stay with the goddamned car. Okay?"_

_He nods. "Y-yes, sir."_

"_Good. And now that that's settled I'm fucking relieved you're alive."_

"_Don't touch me," Connolly insists again, resisting Lawless' embrace. "I said don't touch me!" Lawless lets him wrest free. Lets him go. He staggers away down the alleyway, stumbles blinkingly into the sunlight and sits down on the curb, face in his bloodied hands. Even from this distance I can see his small shoulders begin to hitch._

_Dead kid. 16 years old. Raanan Frye. His killer is sobbing on the sidewalk but I find I have not the tears nor heart to cry. _

"_You ever see someone respond like that?" Lawless asks me thoughtfully._

"_You still carry an unregistered gun?" I return. Call it corruption, call it lying, call it planting evidence…I call it job insurance. One of us has to think with their head, not heart. And in 6 years of partnership, it's always come easier for me, yet another piece of my femininity stolen away, in it's place a man's head, a man's heart. _

_He shakes his head. "Danny told me to get rid of it last year. Something about the Batman investigation," he mumbles, still distracted. "Is it just me or did he respond like a victim-?"_

"_You ask me he responded like someone who's in shock from killing a kid and getting the shit beat out of him and now wants to be left alone." I finally say. And it's my fault. Get a grip, bitch. Way to make it worse than it already was. But my anger is assuaged only by blood and pain, I find sorrow no longer can quench it._

"_I can't do that. He's my partner. Christ, Paltron, he's just a fucking Kid himself-" __I want him to stay. Want him to say it's not my fault, he doesn't blame me, doesn't blame me for any of it. But Jimmy Connolly's a Kid. His fucking partner. My goddamn replacement, and if I know anything about Lawless after six years of working with him it's that his sense of duty is both his best quality and worst fault. He'll leave me. He'll leave me alone to deal with all of this shit to go help Connolly cope._

_...But he's Aaron Lawless. That's the way it has to be. _

"_Go," I say numbly, watching blood dribble from my still clenched fist. I find I can't look him in the eyes. "Help Connolly. And for God's sakes take that gun away before he hurts someone else." __I'm alone when Nora Fields and her assistant finally show up. Watch as the CSU techs establish a perimeter. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS is the only recognition they give this sanguine-soaked ground._

"_Another one of yours?" Nora asks dully, surveying the body while gloving._

"_Rookie." I grunt in return. "Claimed the perp had a gun. We have to find it."_

_CSU's Andrea Taylor sniffs in disapproval. "Detective, if it's not there, it's not there."_

"_Of course it's there." I say through gritted teeth. If Taylor knew just how crucified Connolly would be if it weren't, she wouldn't be so self-righteous. Killing an unarmed kid…that's hard to live down. I've known good men who've ate bullets for less…_

"_Which officer discharged their weapon?" Taylor asks._

"_Connolly. Jimmy Connolly." Nora stiffens. She doesn't say it aloud, but she mouths the word shit and blanches away. _

"_You know him?"_

"_I wrote him a letter for the academy," she sighs, reluctantly surveying the body. "I thought he was…I thought he was ready. I was wrong." _

"_Not so fast, Dr. Fields," Taylor calls from her perch on the ground, hurriedly bundling something metallic into a GCPD evidence bag. "Detective, you'll want to see this."_

…_paydirt. Colt .45, fully automatic. The little beauty's got an 12 round clip. Illegal as Hell, and fucking deadly. If Connolly hadn't shot first there wouldn't be an ounce of blood left in his veins and not a thing a trauma surgeon could ever do. He'll have to grow a pair if he wants to stay on the force, learn to suck it up…but he's in the clear. _

"_Little fuck had a gun on him." I snarl as Nora's nose wrinkles in distaste. She prints him, dead fingers mashing against the portable scanner. In less than three seconds we've got a match, and the computer knows now what I've known all along: the dead boy is our missing volunteer, Raanan Frye, age sixteen. Three arrests for aggravated assault, five for possession, and fresh from a two-year stint in juvy. Little prick was already a career criminal, already a gang member. In the wrong place, at the wrong time, stealing from a charity-most likely to re-sell donations and use the money for drugs. But in my book if you're old enough to use drugs and try to kill people, you're an adult…and you're old enough to pay the fucking consequences. _

_Suddenly nothing is as important as getting the news to Connolly. He needs to know. Needs to know he can stop panicking, he won't be fired, won't be arrested, won't lose his badge. I leave Nora and Taylor to do their work. My task is done._

_Flocks of bystanders crowd the street. The rest of our search team-EMS, FD, and now even the Feds-work to fend them off. Someone called the press, and Trisha Tanaka asks Jim Gordon for a statement. I find Connolly in the middle of it all, sitting on the tail of the now useless ambulance, head and hands hung low in shock as two CSU specialists tweeze bone fragments and bits of flesh from his hair. Montoya and Allen are there, pressed around him, while Lawless kneels in front and talks him through._

_Lawless sees me, and perks up. "Well?"_

"_He got lucky." Is all I have to say. He breathes a sign of relief. _

"_How's he holding up?"_

_Lawless sighs. "It's starting to hit him." Connolly looks down at the spiraling blood trails, completely mesmerized. He traces the lines on his hands, brings them trembling up to touch the scabbing streaks across his face-_

_Panic. "Oh my God there's blood-!"_

"_Yeah, yeah there's blood. Just hold still, Kid. Keep holding still-" _

"_Get it off, get it off!"his small fingers make contact with his wet, matted T-shirt. He begins to tug, cry out-_

"_Stop him." The CSU tech warns. "He can't take that off, he'll ruin the blood smears-."_

"_Well he's not going to wear it, dumbass." Montoya says hotly. "Get some goddamn scissors."_

_But it's a mistake. They're overcrowding him. He needs room to breathe. The techs swarm in, Renee fusses like a mother cat, Lawless restrains his hands and Allen looms over it all. As the techs start cutting his clothes off he begins to whimper and thrash. I try to tell them, but no one listens-they're all too busy trying to fucking help they simply make it worse. "Hold still, Pint-size!" Allen insists. But with this fourth and final touch Jimmy Connolly lets out a strangled shriek like an abattoir of retarded children and starts kicking. He's still wearing street shoes and he kicks HARD._

_Lawless swears and lets go, blood dripping from his teeth. Allen catches a good one in the shins. The two CSU techs aren't quite so lucky and take several straight to the balls._

"_Jesus, Kid, calm down!" Renee cries, trying to stifle a snort of laughter. "They're just trying to help, yeah?" She cuts his clothes, peels them off and bags them. He's scrawny and hairless, sitting on the back of an ambulance bumper in nothing but underwear and socks still crying in shock and shame. He looks anything but a cop, an adult, or a Man. Renee gets him a blanket, lets him sob against her and work it out. "How come I gotta be on bitch-duty?" She glares up at me. _

"_Because I'm about to get my ass handed to me by IAB," I shrug. "I just came to tell him he's off the hook. Perp had a gun."_

"_H-h-how does that even m-matter?" Connolly sniffs suddenly. _

"_You did the right thing, Kid." Lawless says kindly. "You did fine. You came out of it alive-"_

"_But I shot a kid! I killed him! He's as dead as hell and I, I-"_

"_You did the right thing." I say bluntly. "Perp had a gun on him. Automatic. He would've killed you without a second thought if you hadn't shot first."_

"_A kid's dead because of me. I took an oath to serve and protect and I just killed a kid. We're supposed to be the good guys and I just killed a kid. And all anybody can say is I did the right thing." Connolly shakes his head in a rare moment of hollow lucidity, face awash with salty tears, scabbing blood and wet, sticky strings of snot. He turns to Renee. "W-what if he went to Hell?"_

_It should have been me. Me who held him. Comforted him. Offered a shoulder-offered a mother's arms-in which in to weep. I was younger even than he is when I took my first life in a military Op. Know first-hand the guilt, the horror, the relief of shooting terrorists, soldiers…and trying to live with having killed innocent women and children. At 20, I killed four men in an dark alleyway in Paris in self-defense and panic. I know what it is to be in shock, alone and scared shitless in need of comfort, support and sense…But in my bitterness I've become Perci Simmons—become Pharaoh—and now even the suffering of my first-born son can no more move me to pity._

"_You'll be fine." Montoya soothes awkwardly as he sobs into her breast. "You'll debrief with the department pshrink-"_

"_Naw, fuck that." Crispus Allen says, limping up with one large, dark hand quashed around a steaming Styrofoam cup. "Drink this," he offers. "You'll feel better."_

_Connolly takes the cup with trembling hands. Montoya steadies him, raises it to his lips and coaxes him to drink. He calms down. His hands stop shaking. Within a minute he goes from survivor's shock to nodding sleepily against her shoulder. I've been on the force long enough to recognize when one of my officers is being drugged. It was merciful, heartfelt…and illegal as hell._

_I round on Allen. "What the Hell was that?"_

"_Forget juice." Allen says bluntly. "Starbucks with a two shots of vodka. It calms the nerves."_

"_You just gave my officer a shot of straight ethanol."_

"_Kid needed it."_

"_No, Allen, what he needs is a good swift kick of testosterone and a glass of grow the fuck up. I've got an officer dead, an op blown to hell, and now another civilian casualty. And now any decent defense attorney will get the rest of the Brotherhood acquitted on reasonable doubt, let alone the suit against the city because a responding officer was found to be intoxicated while on duty-!"_

"_And since when did you stop thinking like a cop and become a bleeding-heart DA?" Allen says coldly._

"_Since this case is already blown to Hell and IAB already has my ass, that's when, Allen!"_

"_Oh, gee, I'm so sorry you're having such a shitty day. All that paperwork must be such a burden on your virgin conscience." But it's not the two of us speaking. It's this Op, this day, this shitty costume that makes me look and feel like a Nazi megalomaniac. _

"_Get over yourself, Crispus," I snarl. "Grow up."_

_He whips dark glasses from furious eyes. There's a second-only a millisecond-where both of us are convinced he'll slap me...but somehow he refrains. "Grow a soul," he finally whispers._

_With great difficulty he walks away. I turn around, and Andrea Taylor is standing feet from me, dark eyes wide yet intent, her posture firm; my would-be protector. She tries to speak. Can't find the words. "Did he really just drug that cop?" She finally asks. _

_I let out a disgusted laugh. "You should've let him hit me." I deserved it. And right now pain is the only thing that can ever hope to ease my hurt. Over her shoulder I see IAB beckoning, and Taylor's muttered words to herself are the last thing I hear for six hours as I wait for debriefing: _"_As soon as this shitty internship is over, I'm moving back to Dallas."_

But Taylor's wrong. You can't get out. Can't escape. There's nowhere you can run when the darkness and Hell you want so desperately to leave behind dwells within your own festering soul.

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**16:46 EST**

The display window has been sealed with plastic and duct tape. My heart is heavy as I enter the store. I force a smile on my face, and prepare to act my part. And if I seem distracted or unusually solemn, the owner will understand. In light of so much death, so much suffering, only a heartless bitch could go unaffected…

Racks upon racks of smooth, seamless plastic and LCD screens greet me. There's a customer at the register so I try to blend in, immerse myself like I'm browsing. I find a sweet section devoted to lenses and lighting and pull a display Canon telescoping lens from the shelf. It's small and compact, but offers clarity to images out to several hundred meters, or so the packaging boasts. Perfect for bird-watchers in those hard to access locations, allowing viewing of subjects difficult to capture…just like a rifle scope, I find myself thinking, and just what I need. But my concentration is soon interrupted.

"What do you mean it was _taken in the raid?_ This never would have happened in Seattle!" An angry, female voice berates the clerk…and it's a voice I recognize. Slowly I replace the lens and peek around the display to see a familiar mane of deep, rich, red.

"You again," I say wearily.


	37. Patronus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: _to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust._**

**Disclaimer: I want to depict the reality of inner city life, and have tried both not to ignore social problems but not to glorify them either. Human trafficking, domestic abuse, gangs, and racial relations are important issues in our society and need to be talked about if we're ever going to make headway on combating them. Any and all racial, religious, or sexual prejudices depicted by characters of Ernestina are THEIR OWN, and have no reflection on the author's personal beliefs.**

**Warning: This chapter is rated M for mention of human trafficking, sexual reference, and language.**

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* * *

**

**Candidly Cameras**

**Tuesday, September 3****rd**

**16:47 EST**

"You two ladies know each other?" the cashier asks, altogether too hopefully. Karl, according to his name badge: Owner and Manager. Karl is young, late twenties, thirty at most, with sweeping dark hair and slate-grey eyes framed behind sleek, metallic glasses. But even behind those designer lenses and that curtain of hair I can see his desperation. His good looks and charm have failed to work, and I'm his last prayer. He's hoping we're friends, that I'll distract her, direct her hawkish attention away from him to me. Hell, at this point he's probably hoping I'll take her to coffee. This Isley's persistent, and unlike me he doesn't have the option of walking away from a paying customer even if she's a royal pain in the ass.

Shit. And I have to play this one nice. "You could say that," I state demurely, "she harassed me on the sidewalk for reading a newspaper."

Karl tries his best to be professional. He really does. He manages to keep a straight face by biting his lips, but the only thing that saves him is breaking eye contact. Isley's green eyes narrow even further-she knows he's laughing. "Well, Miss Isley, I have to apologize for the delay in your order. We will have the part reshipped at no extra charge and will notify you immediately once it's reached the store." Karl says smoothly. "We apologize for any inconvenience-" But it's too late. Not all the suavity or professionalism in the world can save him now.

"Doctor." Isley whispers.

"Er, pardon?" Karl asks in alarm.

"It's Doctor." She continues, her voice beginning to shake. "Doctor Pamela Isley. I've been a frequent customer at your specialty store for _three years_ now and it's Doctor Isley. Not _miss,_ not _ma'am_, it's _Doctor_."

"Well, I apologize about that ma'a…er, um…" Connolly. Jimmy Connolly, my son, my Angel…and the only man in my adult life never to call me by what once Jon's name for me. "Yes ma'am! I mean sir! I mean Lieutenant!" For the first time in a year I find those awkward words don't irritate the shit out of me. They make my heart laugh, then weep; I'll never hear those words, will never hear that voice again.

Isley is fuming, her cheeks flushing as scarlet as her curled locks, so Karl tries one last desperate attempt to placate her. With his most winning smile he leans on the counter, flips his hair from his face and asks her meaningfully "Why don't I just call you Pam?"

But Doctor Pamela Isley remains unimpressed. She chews her tongue for nearly a minute before finding a suitable retort, "When you have a triple PhD, I'll let you know." She means to storm out gracefully, swings her canvas bag over her pale arm and tries to give me both the cold shoulder and her shoulder at the same time-but it doesn't work. Isley's tall, but her willowy figure is no match for mine. One moment she's on her feet and the next she's ricocheted off me into a display tower, scattering batteries, memory sticks and a hundred other accessories-and herself-across the tile floor.

It was effortless, accidental, and funny as hell. Karl dissolves in a fit of uncontainable chuckles, and I find a satisfied smile has crept its way onto my face as well. "Sorry," I say gently. It's a lie, of course. It wasn't my fault, and hell, even if it was it was a shot well earned. "Let me help you-" But even sprawled on her ass Pamela Isley regards my pro-offered hand with all the contempt she can muster. She raises herself with an attempt at dignity, but her tights are shredded at the knee, one lime-green heel has snapped, and her meticulously curled mane hangs in shambles.

Karl's chuckles give way to all-out howling. Isley retreats without another word, exiting the shop with all the haste and appearance of a bedraggled, brightly-colored tropical bird, feathers well ruffled. So much for my planting a strawman. I have a feeling that regardless of whatever else I do, this Karl will remember me always and only as being the woman who put 'Doctor' Pamela Isley in her rightful place.

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**16:55 EST**

"Sorry about the mess," I begin once Karl has settled down a bit. He's stopped pounding the counter but he's still slumped across it gasping for air, glasses askew, with fat tears pouring from his still-shut eyes.

"No, really it's not a problem," he manages to spout a syllable at a time. "I'll get it in a s-s-sec-!" But it takes considerably longer than a second, even sixty, for him to regain full functionality. "Sorry about that," He calls cheerfully as he finally sweeps up the mess. "Um…I'm Karl, welcome to Candidly Cameras?" He attempts to re-adopt his professional manners but decides to hell with it. "Dude, you just knocked over-"

"The display. I'm so sorry-" This time the sincerity comes easily. He probably spent all morning putting this store back together.

"-the wicked witch of the west!" He snorts, doing a fistpump. " '_This wouldn't have happened in Seatle._'" He mimics in a harsh falsetto. "Oh, the display? Yeah. The display…it's not a problem, really," Karl continues abashedly, sweeping all the merchandise into an empty trashcan to re-shelve later. "Speaking of which-hang on just a sec, I'll be right with you!" Karl crosses behind the counter again and throws open a door marked Employees Only.

But even after the door swings shut I can still hear his muffled voice. "Ji Yeon? Honey, you can come out now!"

Unsurprisingly, when he returns he's not alone, although if I were standing further from the counter I might've thought so. Ji Yeon is tiny-perhaps four foot nine at best-with a round, youthful face that makes the profiler in me place her in her early preteens. But there's a woman's body under those striking facial features, and her crimped, teased, bright-blue streaked hair and matching glitter eye make-up descry her for what she truly is: an adult.

"Ji Yeon's my wife. She helps me run the store but she hates that woman, don't you honey?" And suddenly we're on first-name basis. Accidentally knock over everyone's least favorite customer and suddenly we're all best friends. Shit.

But his diminutive partner only giggles. "Very scary!" The heavy accent takes me by surprise, and it shouldn't have-I let her very western, very modern dress throw me. This close to the university there's bound to be foreign exchange students, and even in a melting pot Metropolis like Gotham City people of all races and colors are just as likely to be non-English speaking immigrants as third generation citizens-but political correctness or chit-chat have never been my fortes. I've been deep undercover with meglomaniac racists and up to my waist in sewage in a men's correctional facility but I've never felt this goddamn exposed before. Never not known instinctively what to do in the moment of panic…

…I feel like a man at a fucking bridal shower. There's nothing for it. I smile and extend a hand. "I'm Perci."

"Percy?" Karl asks. "What do you do, spell it with an i?"

"Yeah," I force a laugh. "It's short for Persephone."

He whistles. "Now that's unusual. Pretty, but unusual. You Greek?"

I shake my head. "No, mostly German, I think." I deflect the conversation to Ji Yeon. "What about you? Where are you from?"

She giggles again, slanted eyes disappearing in an almost painful smile. "Korea."

Her teeth are straightened and whitened, sure, the perfect model's smile. I'm going to guess someone paid a lot for all that dental work. No way in Hell those are her real teeth-Ji Yeon's got herself a mouth full of high quality porcelain veneers. Weigh that against her bone structure… Those skin-tight jeggings probably do wonders for her ass, sure, but her tiny figure is bowed by rickets. Korea? Maybe. But wherever the hell Ji Yeon was raised I'm guessing it wasn't fucking Seoul. And no goddamn way someone who couldn't feed her kid milk paid for that orthodontist bill…

_What the hell happened to you, Ji Yeon? And how the fuck did you get to my city? _

Karl saves us from a long and equally painful as boring conversation by getting down to business. "Well, Perci with an i, what can we do for you today?"

"I'm looking for some photography equipment."

"You came to the right place," He winks. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**17:05 EST**

Karl's question needed an answer and I had one ready: bird-watching. It makes sense—they're far away, tend to move quickly, and many of them are active only in the evening or early morning when the lighting is trickiest…just like a certain Mafioso I know.

Karl steers me back to the section of lenses I was browsing through earlier and begins to touch on the merits of each and every one. His wife disappears into the back again and returns with a step ladder. She begins replacing the shelves knocked over by Isley's mishap, humming as she works. "She does that," Karl shrugs, glancing over fondly. "I think it's cute."

I try to keep the conversation going. "I can't believe you made her get the step ladder by herself."

"Dude, she gets mad if I try to help. My first night on the couch was after the great light-bulb change fiasco of '29," he grins. "She's short, but it's not a disability, and she hates being treated like it is. People already talk down to her for her 'Engrish', you know?"

I've never been an immigrant. Never been short. Never been so frail and feminine that people have tried to look out for me. But I've been handicapped. Been stuck in a wheel chair. Seen and loathed looks of pity and of fear for something beyond my control…so yes, Ji Yeon, I know.

"What are we looking at, price range-wise?" Karl asks casually. "There's a lot of cool shit in this store, if you pardon my French, but a lot of it's just not practical for an amateur photographer or someone on a tighter budget-"

"That won't be a problem," I assure him. "If it's worth the extra money for better quality then I'm willing to pay for it."

"Awesome." he enthuses. "Then I get to show you the _fun stuff_. I mean, the other stuff in here is great and all, and it sells well, kind of a photographer's bread and butter, you know? But this?" He continues, picking up a Canon EOS mark VII with no small amount of reverence. "this is _desert_. You don't need it, but you want it really, really, really bad."

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**17:13 EST**

Lucky for Karl the thugs who looted his store didn't know shit about what they were doing. Sure, they ran off with or destroyed nearly $130,000 worth of equipment, but they knew nothing about the layout of his store or the relative value of the merchandise. "They stole stuff like printers and photopaper," Karl relates with a laugh. "They never got to the back displays where the 'real magic' is."

Then he gets to business, and he becomes Karl: Owner and Manager once more. He's still upbeat, sprinkling this whirl-wind tour with bits of humor, but for the next hour and a half we simply talk hardware-a tongue I readily understand. Karl explains shutter speeds, lens lengths, and tricky lighting. He's had a lot of people wanting to photograph the peregrine falcons the city's released to help cull the pigeon population. They're difficult to capture-they like the early morning and evening for their hunting if not night, he explains. Falcons. Like Falconi-but that bird has already been caged, a predator who will never hunt in my city again…

-but at the same time I'll want a very, very fast shutter speed in order to catch one clearly in a swoop-

I ask him how he knows all this, and from across the store Ji Yeon laughs. "Guess!" She giggles, still re-stocking the shelves Isley managed to topple.

…Ah.

"Anyway, the EF series telephoto zoom lenses here have an awesome shutter speed. You'll pay an arm and a leg for them but they're the best there is. Even at maximum length you can still use autofocus to take multiple, stabilized images with one click-similar to what you might find in a Paparazzi camera, actually. There's a similar model by a different designer that I can't sell fast enough to the Waynites."

"Waynites?" I ask, intrigued.

"You've never heard of the Waynites?" my unwitting accomplice gapes, "You can't be _that_ old! C'mon, Waynites! You know, women-and men-who follow that doofus around 24/7 in hopes of taking that one photo the magazines will pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for: Bruce Wayne wrecks car, Bruce Wayne buys new car, Bruce Wayne takes a shot, Bruce Wayne takes a piss…you know, the Waynites. It doesn't matter what that man does somebody's got to be taking his picture."

_Bruce Wayne mows over pedestrian_, my aching knee reminds me. But if these paparazzi shits can chase a celebrity, then I can stalk my prey. "I can't complain, though." Karl continues, oblivious to the darkness that has entered his store. "I opened this place up during undergrad and I would've gone under if it hadn't been for that guy's miraculous 'return from the dead.' One day I can barely make the lease on a hole-in-the-wall shop and the next day I can't sell cameras fast enough. Now look at us!" He gestures proudly. "Well, minus the missing windows, but you get my drift-"

"It takes multiple frames with just one shot," I muse aloud, hefting both camera and the weighty 400mm lens to eye level and getting a feel for them. The sizes and textures are different, and the balance isn't under the shoulder, but it's not unlike holding a rifle and a scope. A thought occurs that I've never considered before: in another life, had things been fair, had things been differently...I could have been good at this. Could have enjoyed this. I could actually be here, buying a camera to photograph the things I've lied about. Perhaps in some parallel universe Gwen Paltron isn't crippled in the military, lives out her life with her high school sweetheart and at age 39 takes up photography as a hobby to pass the time…a woman who hunts down birds instead of men.

But I'm not that woman. Never was. Will never be again.

Multiple frames with just one shot. Handy. "So it's like an automatic," I finally whisper.

…Shit. Did I just blow my cover-? But Karl is oblivious to the Killer in his store, and by nature a salesman; he does his best not to make people feel uncomfortable. "Like an _instamatic_?" he corrects lightly, "um, no. Plus it's slightly blasphemous to infer while holding the supreme god of photography awesomeness," he laughs. "If you add the 800mm the EOS becomes the favorite among sports photographers, too. We get a lot of Knights fans in here, and I'm telling you, this baby is the one they ooh and ahh over-"

"I'm new to this all," I finally confide in Karl after his long-winded tour that takes us to Sports Illustrated, National Geographic, ESPN, and beyond. "Which would you suggest?"

He launches in with perfect ease, and I see now why his business has done so well over the years…and it has nothing to do with BrucefuckingWayne. "Well, just the 100-400mm with an extender will probably give you the most versatility, but again, you're going to pay for that in loss of aperture size and image quality-although it still holds its own on CA, you know? So you've got to ask yourself if you can be content with that. Most people starting out aren't going to be taking the sort of shots that it's going to make too much of a difference on. But if you need that quality for your distance shots-if you're going to try to publish any, for instance-you might want to reconsider. Getting two good quality lenses with a bit of overlap in range can be pricey, sure, but I can't tell you how many amateur photographers start out just fine with an extender, yeah, but I've had a good few back in here after a few months or years wanting to upgrade, especially the students." He reflects honestly. "But ultimately, Perci, it depends on what you want to do. What you need these photos for. Really, it's up to you."

What you need these photos for. To catch a mobster, to fool the FBI, to save a city…and to kill a fucking Clown. I toy with the lens in my hands, wait for the exact right wording, right instant to spring the trap. Karl's been carrying on like nothing happened three days ago, like no one smashed out his windows, looted half his store, like 50 people didn't bite the big one less than a block from his doors…and it's because death isn't something you want to contemplate when you're forcing yourself to go on. He's a good man. He's kept his store open, followed Gordon's directives, but he's tried his best not to dwell on what made them necessary. _Time to man up, Karl. You have to face your demons. We all do. There's an elephant in the store with us and its name is Death._

Perci Simmons, leukemia patient, replaces the camera with a trembling touch. "I might not have that," she whispers with the slightest hint of a tearful shrug. "Let's go for both."

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**19:00 EST**

Checkout time. Gordon doesn't know it yet, but the GCPD just spent $13,748.74 in new hardware. The bill won't come until the end of the month, and by then Perci Simmons will have disappeared for good and the loss of fourteen grand will be the least of his concerns.

Both 100-400mm and 300-800mm telephoto zomm lenses, EOS mark VII camera body, sliding tripod, a convenient yet oh-so-chic black and teal pinstriped soft shell water-resistant carrying case (selected by Ji Yeon), a one-year warrantee, an online subscription to the bi-monthly Gotham Urban Audubon and a favored customer club printing discount later, Peri Simmons has made the purchase of a lifetime…and I'm ready to leave.

But Karl and Ji Yeon _aren't_. It's already an hour past close and they're still chatting away. Apparently I'm their first new customer since the Legacy, and one of the only all this week, and I did them the favor of sending Isley scampering and just paid for their Caribbean cruise over fall break. She's still a student at the university, Karl explains. She wants to be an art teacher or an interior design major-she really has an eye for that sort of thing-

And with all this talk about her skills, Ji Yeon grows emboldened. She asks what color my hair would be if I had it, says the teal stripes on the bag will look good with my eyes, that I should wear more blue, it would bring them out. "A blue scarf for head, nobody notice you have no hair!" Her kindness-and her frankness-are overwhelming. It's not the sort of comment a cancer patient could just walk away from. Hell, it's the first time in 13 years another woman's had the balls to call anything about me pretty. I have to reciprocate.

Smalltalk. Shit. I'm no good at this. "Did you two meet at the University, then?"

Ji Yeon lets out a laugh. But it's not the same high-pitched cultural giggle that's been grating at my ears for the last fifteen minutes. This is different. This is nervous. This is _fearful_. Even Karl seems a bit put on edge. "You…you could say that." Her dark eyes have gotten huge.

"Karl, no-"

"Oh, come on, honey. I'm sick of lying about it. Who knows? We could die tonight and then no one would ever know. And I don't want that. I want someone to know," he races passionately. "Even if it's just one. Just a random stranger. Besides, it's not like she's a cop or anything-"

No, not anymore. I'm not a cop, not anything like a cop. But you're _busted_, Karl. And regardless of appearances or however the Hell nice some stranger is to you, you never, never fess because you never know who you can trust and who word might get back to. But mostly you never fess because you never, never get to choose what the bastards will do with the information. Maybe you get to pay 'insurance' for the rest of your life; maybe you owe them a favor someday and you'd better have the balls to cash it in; maybe they kill you outright, or maybe they teach you a lesson you'll never forget. It used to be the Mafiosos in Gotham had some honor: no women, no kids. Things are different now, and Ji Yeon looks like she's been through enough Hell already...

I soon find out how right I am.

"I took a class in Asian studies, just for core credits, you know?" Karl rushes. "And this grad student did a presentation on the sex trade along the border between North Korea and the PRC. Horrible stuff. Anyways, I talked to her after class and we just hit it off-as friends-and it was really interesting. You know, I always grew up hearing about the Middle East and Haiti and all that stuff but it was like there was this whole horrible thing going on over there in Korea that no one on the news ever talked about. So I joined this Human Rights Interest Group-we even spoke in front of the UN once-equal access to education, healthcare, and women's rights, kids…trying to get people to vote for politicians who would do something to stop to the sex trade. Really spooky, scary shit. But nobody did anything, not our classmates, not our government—and certainly not theirs." He says bitterly. "Four years of protesting, all that blogging, and in the end maybe we raised some 'awareness', yeah, but we didn't really help anybody over there. It's like for all that work, all that time and energy, we still never even made a difference."

I understand his frustration. Even without acting-without hiding behind the mask of this ultra-feminine, soft-spoken alter-ego I understand him. Try working for the police in this city, I tell him silently. Try toiling for redemption, for penance, for justice…and ending up with shit.

"So one day I'm giving that exact same presentation to a women's studies class about how desperate some of these women are to escape that they literally risk their lives to cross to the People's Republic then put themselves up-or are forced-into prostitution or mail-order bride catalogues on the internet and hope to God that their new lives with the Americans, Europeans or Japanese who pay for their passage out aren't as bad as their own country when it just clicks. That's what I can do. That's how I can help! So a few of us got together and got some girls over here on fiancé visas…and we got them over here and underground. There's thousands of Koreans in Gotham, especially around the University, so we already had a support system in place!"

Human trafficking.

I don't fucking believe it. Ji Yeon got here by goddamn _human trafficking_ because some romantic idealist thought he could change the world…and it wounds like cold steel, sounds like the kind of naïve stupidity that Jimmy Connolly might have pulled. The cop in me says it's criminal, regardless of intent…but the small sliver of womanhood still left knows I can't blame him. Don't blame him-or her, or the tens of thousands of other women each year who try to seek asylum here but can't. Is it illegal? Yes. Dangerous? Hell yes. But is it a service to the suffering? Absolutely. A stab of pity and new founded pride well up in my heart for his sincerity and his courage…but mostly I think of an unnamed grave where Angel's real mother lies buried. Gordon always suspected she must have been an illegal brought over by sex trade because no missing person's report was ever filed and no next of kin were ever found. No one ever did come forward to claim the body…and I was in Memorial and didn't have the chance. Caucasian female, late teens/early twenties, green eyes, no funeral, no mourners, no reading of scripture or saying of prayers...just a number on a grid in the Potter's Field. Her DNA, fingerprints, and post-mortem dental x-rays are equally anonymous, still on file with the morgue. Yet another unclaimed, unnamed, unmissed human soul in the midst of Gotham's turmoil. How easily, how expectedly, could Ji Yeon be buried in that same field, forever forgotten, unwanted, unmissed, and unloved.

But it didn't end that way for her. She found hope, and happiness and love beyond all her wildest fears or expectations. It didn't end that way for Ji Yeon. It didn't have to end that way for Angel's mother. Doesn't have to end that way for any of us…but it does. Again and again it does.

They've gone silent and smiling, and she's blushing under his unabashed adoration. I'm expected to say something. I nearly can't. It's so unfair that I should lie to them when they've been so vulnerable to me. I'm dying-been dying-from the inside out since the moment my Angel left me and it has nothing to do with fucking _cancer_. I am Tantalus. I hunger and thirst for the refreshment of human contact, friendship, love…but my hands are stained with blood, and like those cruel waters and clusters of grapes God has placed them forever just beyond my reach. I clear my throat-and my heart-and continue. "So are you two really married, or is she-"

Karl laughs. "Yeah. We're married. Obviously, none of the girls or agencies could know or we'd have a huge mess on our hands. None of them complained-they were here because they wanted to come to the US, really, not get married. We have to stay low key or we'd have both the Korean and US governments breathing down our backs-not to mention the Kkangpae! Those bastards are nasty," he shudders, "I lost my friend to them. Soon-yi. She called herself Sonya, and she's the one who got me interested in all this in the first place. Fucking cops said she died during the Fear Night riot, but she hadn't answered her phone for days before that."

Suddenly the anger in me is roused. "Did you file a missing persons report?"

"They don't care," Ji Yeon sniffs. "They say is inconclusive." And you couldn't press the matter because the bastards would shut you up permanently, wouldn't they? I'm not stupid-the Korean mob might not know what it is exactly Karl and his pals are up to, but they know enough. No way Ji Yeon or any of those other girls got over here without their help-and even if she's a legal citizen now, no way in Hell they'd leave her alone.

"So what if another Asian girl disappears then turns up dead?" Karl asks bitterly. "The cops don't care. The cops don't care shit. Not in Gotham. But anyways, we, well, _she_ fell in love with me at first sight-"

"He look like Harry Potter," Ji Yeon gushes, glitter mascara still running down her plump cheeks for her lost friend. "so handsome!"

"-and even after I explained to her why I brought her over I couldn't convince her to go underground. She wanted to marry me!" Karl laughs, pulling her close. "she told me I could send her back but not send her away, and I wasn't about to let her go back there. No way. Not when there was something I could do to stop it."

Simple words, but striking. _Not when there was something I could to stop it._ Karl doesn't back down. He's a good man. A good man like Art Jamison, giving his life in the line of duty. Good man like Thomas Wayne, Chris Holden…and Jimmy Connolly, my son, my child, my Angel. And I now I know why Gotham is worth fighting over for the Joker, the Batman, and all the good men like Lawless and Gordon who slave away to a thankless populace putting families and lives on the line without the fury of vengeance to fuel them…why she's worth dying for for young men with their lives yet ahead of them...

We are Gotham. We are Sodom. We are Gomorrah. Killers, rapists, whores and thieves…and yet in our midst good men still live. And for the count of the ten righteous She must still be saved. Fear and chaos are the Joker's tools. The crime-lords and petty thugs but his pawns. But his love, his worship, his mind and thought are bent to the heart of man, a more dangerous foe than I've ever imagined. I've caught a sudden glimpse of the true enemy-the ordinary people who walk these streets, each with the potential to be one of the Ten…and that's why my Angel-like all good men-had to die. The Joker has a plan: grind away at the hearts of men, instill so much fear, so much chaos, so much hate and anger that none will rise in the righteous' place. And then, only then, when the good men finally are all cast down or killed, there will be nothing left to keep Gotham's heart of darkness from devouring her from within.

That purple bastard doesn't want to rule the world, he just wants to watch it burn. Just for the Hell of it. Just because he can. And he's good-he's damn good-at fueling the fire.

* * *

**Candidly Cameras**

**19:27 EST**

"Thank you." I say from beyond that shrouding curtain. "Thank you for telling me."

"You tell nobody," Ji Yeon cautions. "Please?"

"No," I promise. "Not a soul."

"It feels good to finally say it, you know?" Karl says, looking down at her dreamily. "To just come out and confess. I mean, a few of our best friends know, sure, but I can't tell anyone else the real truth. Not even my parents. I can't risk immigration, the cops, or the jopok coming after them, too. We'd be in a shit-ton of trouble if any one ever knew."

"You're safe with me," I repeat, as gently as though the whispered words were for my own son. "Not a word."

"I told you, honey," Karl murmurs gently. "I told you it'd be alright." He kisses her. Leans down, places his lips to hers and she melts, face upturned in utter ecstacy-

_Eighteen. Eloping. Jon's hands, Jon's lips, caressing parts of my body never explored before. I'm weeping, blushing, naked, frightened and yet so thrilled-_

Neuropathy. Phantom pain. It's come before, but not like this, forgotten memories of flesh I no longer possess. Feelings I've never wished nor wanted to have again. It's too much. Too painful. I have to get away or be burned. I clear my throat awkwardly. "You two have a great evening," I tell them as they break apart. "Get home before curfew," I caution.

"No worries there," Karl laughs, one strong arm encircling her tiny shoulders, the fingers caught, still caressing her hair. "The military presence here has scared her pretty bad. But I'm not going to let anything happen to you, am I?" He states protectively.

In the doorway. Teetering on the brink. I want to stay. I need to leave. Karl and Ji Yeon-right now they're the closest things I have to friends…and they don't even know my name. "Right. Bye," I finally whisper.

He calls out after me. "You take care of yourself, Perci, you hear?"

"Yeah," I smile, and then they're lost from sight, that small haven of hope extinguished in the festering reality of Gotham's streets. After all their openness and honesty, the lie tastes bitter as wormwood on my tongue. Take care of yourself-the one person in all of Gotham who is in no need of protection, has nothing to lose, no one to mourn her, nothing left to live or die for…

_Take care of myself? No, Karl, I can't. I'm not worth it…and someone has to take care of the rest of you. _ Someone has to look after Gotham's people. Shelter them against the oncoming storm. Someone has to make the sacrifice. Give up their humanity to come something more, become something less. In the face of the Joker's rising inferno Gotham screams for the hero she really needs.

A silent protector. A watchful guardian…

…A vengeful angel.

* * *

**Ji Yeon is named in homage to J.J. Abrams' LOST, whose intriguing and unorthodox screenplay has helped me tremendously while writing Ernestina! **


	38. Awaiting Odysseus

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

**AN: All new prologue! This chapter takes place during the events of Batman Begins.**

**Warning: this chapter contains sexual assault.**

* * *

The following excerpt was taken from Christopher Holden's debut novel, PRODIGAL. Unflinching, controversial, and containing evocative descriptions of the conditions in which many of the population of modern Gotham City lived at that time, it went on to receive international attention and critical acclaim, including the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2027. It is reprinted here with permission from Hendricks and Holden Press, a subsidiary of the Wayne Legacy Foundation.

Reviews for PRODIGAL:

"No man has ever captured the collective heart and psyche of a city so poignantly." –Naveen Preshant, DMV, PhD.

"Holden's alleged account of the Wayne heir's disappearance borders on criminal recklessness and willing accomplice, further proof that in Gotham City, all one needs is celebrity to avoid serving hard time."—The Gotham Gazette

"Another travesty of justice."—the Gotham City Star

"Gritty. A must read!"—the New York Times

"An excellent account of a city's doubt, if somewhat sensationalized. Whether fact or fiction, it remains an intriguing read."—Lois Lane, the Daily Planet

**Dedication:** I would like to dedicate this work to Sergeant James Gordon and the men and women of the Gotham City Police Department for their courage, their persistence, and their relentless efforts to bring peace to a troubled city.

RKD, you are not forgotten. I wish you all the love and luck in the world.

And finally, for my protector, HYAENA: may the lion finally sleep tonight.

**Prologue: **

"Bring forth the best robe, and put _it_ on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on _his_ feet; and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill _it;_ and let us eat, and be merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and now is found."

—Luke 15:22 King James Version Bible

Prodigal. A word almost universally recognized to mean 'return'. A word—in Gotham, at least—now nearly inseparable from the larger-than-life celebrity Bruce Wayne. But our story has a sadder ending. There is no father, no mother, no brother to welcome the erring boy home. There is a homecoming, but one where there is no apology offered nor explanation given. Here in Gotham, there is only a man who returns home to his family's mansion to collect his inheritance, a man who continues to squander it long after his father's death.

Perhaps it is only fitting: As prodigal, in its original sense, was one who spent wastefully and indulged in excess.

Herein lies an account, as accurate and as honest as I dare to be, of the seven years interim between the disappearance of the Wayne heir to his miraculous rediscovery, half a world away. But PRODIGAL is more than the tale of a stranger to me, it is also my own self laid bare. The events of this novel occurred during some of the most formative years of both my childhood and adult life, and their consequences will continue to carry me.

This is not, as many have purported, another sensationalized styling of Bruce Wayne.

This is the story of how one man's disappearance became a city's obsession.

And this is the story of a young man, an aspiring journalist, who suddenly found that the fate of a stranger became inexplicably and inextricably entangled with his own. This is his story, and if you would let him, he would like to share his tale.

—Christopher James Holden, July 2028

**Table of Contents:**

Prologue

The Night that Gotham Wept

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Angel

A Toast to Friends We Never Were

Tragedy Deferred

The Tangled Web We Weave

The Writing on the Wall

Underground

Of Saviors, Hellions, and Thigh High Heels

Death at the Alamo

The Plot Thickens

Buried Alive

To Protect What is Precious

A Bold Entrance

The Menace Unmasked

Methodology

Into the Roman's Den

An Inevitable Fallout

A Heartfelt Farewell

Epilogue

* * *

"Then the Spirit of the Lord came on Jephthah. He crossed Gilead and Manasseh, passed through Mizpah of Gilead, and from there he advanced against the Ammonites. And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord: "If you give the Ammonites into my hands,whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites will be the Lord's, and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering"—Judges 11:29-31

* * *

**January 2027**

**Paro International Airport, Kingdom of Bhutan**

"You go," Jigme Kinley commanded the strange shape towering above him, dressed in rags and reeking of sweat, _ara_ and stale urine. He was _bideshi,_ foreign, with pale skin under mottled bruises in grey and purple. His strong chin sported a short beard, full and thick like a _dong gyem tsey._ "You go now!"

But to the young solider's surprise, this strange specter of a man only chuckled. "_I don't think so, man_," he replied in slurred yet fluent _Dzongkha_, plopping down on his rump in the street. His accent sounded if anything northern, like Jigme's own, and his parents had spoken Nepali in their home. "_I'm Bruce Wayne," _the drunkard continued from his perch on the icy stone. "_I'm drunk. I'm sore. I just walked 60 miles in the snow. I need a bed, and I need a shower. In short, I'm tired of your shitty country and I want to go home._"

"Bruce Wayne!" Jigme Kinley gaped, the English rolling off his tongue strangely. Even he knew that name, that name on the news—!

"_Don't just stand there staring, man_," Bruce Wayne waved dismissively—and perhaps a little drunkenly as well—to the only guard of the only gate of the only international airport in Bhutan. "_Go get me a plane_."

* * *

**Gotham City**

With the invention of the internet, word traveled fast. Perhaps not as fast as the speed of light, but certainly faster than the speed of the turning Earth. Where once the 'shot heard round the world' actually took weeks to be heard by the disenfranchised King, in the modern era news from across the globe spread instantaneously while one continent still lay sleeping in shadow, the other bathed in light. News is spontaneous, unscripted, and often inopportune, as this breaking story proved too true: America, lover of celebrity gossip and fanfare, was sleeping when word rang out across the internet. At 02:37 am EST, the Bhutanese government announced the 'discovery' of the presence of an American citizen named Bruce Wayne just 34 miles outside their capital. Mr. Wayne, fresh out of a seven year global sojourn wherein he had been declared officially dead not 96 hours previously, had decided-like Clemens before him-that rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated. He was also tired, hungry, and quite ready to come home.

In the Palisades surrounding Gotham City, a man named Alfred Pennyworth was awakened immediately, having an alarm already in place should google or either of three other major search engines ever find a steep rise in hits for the words: MISSING HEIR BRUCE WAYNE FOUND.

Downtown, TV 18 reporter-turned-news anchor Christopher Holden had been pulling an expected all-nighter after thirteen of the twenty members of the small studio staff had called off work with strep throat, and another four had shown up symptomatic. He was sipping a prophylactic hot tea himself while surfing the internet for pertinent news for the 'Global News' segment, when an article popped up on the BBC website: WAYNE HEIR FOUND?

_Is it true, or simply another high-stakes hoax? While the Bhutanese government has yet to confirm the identity through DNA testing, fingerprinting or retinal scan, facial recognition software has not ruled out the possibility that this could, indeed, be the missing American billionaire Bruce Wayne. Wayne, who was declared dead in absentia four days ago by the American government, was last seen in Gotham City seven years ago on the same day his parents' notorious killer, Joe Chill, was released from prison and subsequently assassinated…_

Across town, in a century-old, dingy, yet well kept apartment flat, ADA Rachel Dawes' cell phone began to ring. She tried to keep it close, even in bed, and tried even harder to answer it by the second ring when she was in Finch's lest she wake him. But they were both public servants in a town whose crime rate didn't care what hour of the day or night it was, and both were used to constant interruptions of sex and sleep for the greater good. That understanding was the only reason it'd worked out, Rachel knew. Sleeping with her boss was a terrible decision on more than one account, but neither she nor Finch had time for a personal life outside of work, and there was only so much one could give to this thankless city without needing something in return. It wasn't so much a relationship as it was necessity—sanity, even. District Attorney Carl Finch was a ridiculously self-sacrificing man, if not awkward and on the more desperate side of divorced and middle-aged. But clumsy in bed or not, Gotham needed good men like Finch in office if she were ever to stand against villains like Carmide Falconi. So regardless of whatever the man sleeping next to her might let himself believe…this clandestine and convenient relationship was as much for Gotham's benefit as her own.

Tonight, Rachel had it by the fourth ring. "Sorry," she mumbled, flinging the covers back and stepping hastily into slippers. Across the bed, Finch rolled over drowsily. Good, she thought, it didn't wake him…

Finally, when she was out of earshot, she smoothed back her thoroughly tousled hair and answered. "Rachel Dawes, ADA."

"Rachel Dawes, turn on your television," a familiar voice ordered.

"Chris?" She asked, immediately alarmed. "What's going on?"

But Christopher Holden only laughed. "Tonight is for you," her former lover promised. "You'll see."

Bruce was back. The reporters were saying 'possibly', but Rachel Dawes didn't need DNA or fingerprint confirmation-she, more than anyone, would recognize Bruce Wayne anywhere. The still photograph showed a young man, unshaven, dirty, and gaunt…but it was Bruce. Her Bruce. She hadn't seen her Bruce for seven years, but now-finally!-Bruce was back. He'd been found, and now it was only a matter of time until he was flown safely home to Gotham City where she'd waited, waited for him all these years-

"I guess this is goodbye, then." A melancholy voice stated softly. Rachel wheeled.

"Carl-" she began, but he cut her off.

"I knew it wouldn't last," the older man shrugged sadly. "but I had hoped it would." The television was still running, a multitude of strangers all repeating Bruce's name when Carl Finch stepped closer and laid a gentle kiss in her dark hair. "Thank you." She shut her eyes, twin tears gliding down her cheeks. But Finch didn't speak, and when she finally opened them again, he was gone.

He'd gone back to bed. He may have even slept soundly, she didn't know. She didn't—she couldn't. Sitting in Finch's living room alone, dabbing tearing eyes with the edges of her robe, watching events unfold half-way across the world, ADA Rachel Dawes felt guilt stab deeply into her heart for both the men she had betrayed, the one she'd loved and the one who'd loved her. It was a weight, crushing and awful, like a shadow that eclipsed her joy. After seven years, Bruce was back, yet the only elation she could muster was quiet moan of misery.

This hadn't been the first time she'd betrayed the man she claimed to love for the sake of quenching her loneliness, and it wouldn't be the last. Just two years later, she would lay awake in Harvey Dent's arms while the Joker tore her city apart, and all through those less-lonely yet guilt-ridden, sleepless nights, Rachel Dawes wondered if in the end it would be her selflessness—or her selfishness—that finally got her killed.

* * *

**Gotham City International Airport**

"More like 'Bruce Wayne International Airport'," Cameron Shaw seethed. "This is ridiculous." As a newly graduated journalism major from GSU, she'd seen paparazzi before, but never in numbers-or desperation-such as this. The terminal, the sidewalks, and the many roads leading out of the airport were overflowing with people young and old, accompanied by every form of photographic equipment imaginable. Fighting, jockeying, vying for positions there'd been several outbursts leading to arrests already, and she'd just been informed by a Security Officer that EMS was now on standby should the violence escalate.

"It's just Bruce Wayne," Cameron muttered to no one in particular. "He's not even a movie star. The guy's only famous for _being famous_-how lame is that?" But undeserving or not, Bruce Wayne was a Celebrity, a son of Gotham City, and, as Chris Holden had pointed out, his return really was _news_ whether they liked it or not. Viewers would expect coverage of such an important local event, and therefore their station had to cover it.

…if only every other news channel on the planet didn't have the exact same idea.

Her cameraman, Paul Whatshisface (he was just a cameraman, afterall, there was no point getting to know him) was still just aimlessly sweeping the crowd, taking in the sights for all the vicarious viewers who thought staying home and watching the television would be less work than driving out to witness the event firsthand. They're the smart ones, Cameron thought as she mentally composed herself for her next speaking segment. The 22 year-old reporter hadn't seen so much frenzy, so much chaos, and so much coverage of an event since the Royal Wedding back in kindergarten—and at least that was (arguably) some strange sort of politics…

Not to mention an actual_ wedding_. Today's 'grand event' consisted simply of a man walking to his car. Oh, the excitement of it all.

"You about ready?" Paul asked calmly, still expertly bracing the camera so that slow controlled spin would look like a tripod mount, nothing more. His terrible fashion sense aside, she was really lucky to have him as her tech support-TV 18 was a fledgling news channel, and most of its employees were amateurs at best. Paul's shots were seamless, and even with his Hawaiian print shirts, his presence made her feel much more professional. She was two years younger and had much less street-time experience than Rebecca James, another TV 18 reporter, but Chris had felt that she'd give this important event better coverage, and had given her the best cameraman on staff.

"Just about," she responded, quickly powdering her sweating face for the thousandth time. It was winter, but this many bodies, lights, and electronics crowded into the terminal had raised the temperature to no less than boiling, she was sure.

"Ready," she replied, straightening her suit-jacket and her smile, but her shot was quickly interrupted.

"Well, well, look at this," the immediately recognizable sultry voice of Gotham's most (in)famous Gossip Girl crooned from behind her. "TV 18 condescends to the public's viewing pleasure. Isn't there an election somewhere you should be covering?" Vicky Vale. Journalist, blogger, gossip, and trouble—the kind of trouble men just _loved_ to get into. She'd once worked with the popular and rather revolting reality series Busted, setting up sting operations for wealthy, married men then catching them in the act of cheating. After two seasons, she'd quit-to the network's disappointment-and had gone form minor celebrity of a local program to a fashion sensation overnight. No one knew what had prompted her 'generous patrons', but consensus was clear it wasn't her budding talent. Rumor had it that unlike countless other women who'd played the role of the buxom bimbo over the years, Vicky Vale had taken it one step further: she'd actually previously slept with some of the men depicted in the program, and made _tapes._ Sure, their reputations-and many of their marriages-had been ruined by what incriminating, circumstantial evidences had been gathered by Busted, but no one wanted their kids YouTubing a vid of them with their fat ass hanging out, banging that sleazy sexpot.

…it was just speculation, true. But Vicky Vale's permanent, voyageuristic smile and suggestive attire left everyone in a five foot radius in need of a shower to wash off the slime. "Someone call Vice," Cameron retorted, eying her antagonist from peep-toe Prada boots to her Calvin Klein corset-brassiere top, complete with ruffles, lace, and what she suspected was a built-in extra cup size or three. "Tell them there's a whore on the loose."

"Uh, Shaw?" Paul interrupted softly, hand on his headset. "We're about to go live-"

Vicky's salacious smile only widened. "Hmm. You're sharp, you know that? But one reporter to another, no one in this business gives a damn about smarts. You want to play this game, then play by the rules…and the rules say the best-looking woman _wins_."

"I hope you don't mean _you._" Cam sniffed.

"Please," Vale sighed exaggeratedly, rising to her full height so the famous view of her rather ample chest could be seen. "This is a man who just spent seven years in _Asia_," she said scornfully. "These are the only 'girls' he'll be interested in."

Shaw set her jaw. "You're a tramp and a disgrace."

But the woman only laughed. "I like you, girlie," she purred. "Give me a call in a few years when you've grown up some more and tell me I wasn't right."

Vicky Vale was a world-class slut, Cam decided, not a reporter. There were several other words that came to mind on the mention of her name, but _right_ definitely wasn't one of them. She'd prove her wrong. Journalism was a noble, important profession, even more so than politics, she'd always said. People trusted the news, no one was stupid enough to trust a politician. The news told the truth, and that's what people needed, wasn't it?

In the wake of Vicky's echoing laughter, Cameron Shaw did her best to stay professional. She had poise, class, intelligence, and a degree, goddamnit! She was a journalist, not a sensationalist, and she poured her heart and mind out into every five minute update for the rest of the afternoon. That's what Gotham needed, a level-headed, straight-talking, trustworthy news source they could count on. She even managed-by asking the chief of security politely-to get moved closer to the Arrivals gate. Feet and face aching, tired, exhausted, worn from a long day of work, Cameron Shaw was deeply disillusioned when the famous Bruce Wayne finally strolled down the unfurled red carpet.

The hand that wasn't waving benevolently to the expectant crowd was wrapped around the waist of a very prim, excessively smug Vicky Vale. When she saw Cam was looking, the gossip made sure to wink.

She even blew a kiss.

Cameron Shaw went home and cried. She'd heard many times that Experience made the best teacher…but no one had warned her just how cruel She could be.

* * *

**Gotham State University**

**Office of Walter Graves, Journalism Department Chair**

Cameraon Shaw wasn't the only one to suffer in the wake of the Wayne heir's miraculous return from the dead. Trisha Tanaka stood in Professor Walter Graves' office, her head dutifully lowered and eyes plastered to the floor.

"I don't understand," she said softly. Her accent came out as her voice trembled, and she shut her eyes in resignation. It always did that when she was trying desperately not to cry. It had been many years since she'd felt so ashamed or saddened, and she swallowed down the bitter, salty taste of tears. At least none showed on her face. But why now? Why here?

"Trisha," Graves began in honeyed tones, "Your work so far has been impeccable. It's only fair I judge you more harshly than any other student-you have more potential, and I won't see it wasted."

"I don't understand," Trisha repeated. Her tone wasn't obstinant or angry, although her friends would have said she would have every right to be. Even in grade school she'd been harassed by teachers and advisors. _You're better than this, _they repeated._ You can do more_. She had still received scholarships for college, yes; but she'd missed the honor of valedictorian by .03 GPA points because 4 misguided English teachers had thought to 'hold her to higher standards'. Her sister had graduated top of her class, and her parents had hoped-had demanded-the same effort from her. It had made school miserable—or more miserable than it already was. At 11, she'd had larger breasts than girls three grades above her, and had to put up with merciless teasing and scorn from her classmates, both male and female alike. In junior high, boys teased her for her 'boobies'. Girls whispered behind their hands that she stuffed, or had 'had her titties done'. Once, in high school, another girl had been caught taking cell phone pictures of her in the locker room trying to 'prove you were a fake'. Luckily, the principal had gotten involved, and none of the pictures had made it to Susan's outgoing texts before the phone had been confiscated, but the memory still haunted her.

"Trisha," he said placatingly, stretching out a hand to take her own. It was a large hand, soft, plump, sweaty and hot. It made her uncomfortable, but she didn't want to offend by shaking it off. "Your global journalism project didn't mention Bruce Wayne, not even once! I had no choice but to give you a C. Someone with your talent should have known that."

"Bruce Wayne," she repeated hollowly, still studying the beige carpeting. "You gave me a C in my course project because I did not say Bruce Wayne."

"He's major news," Graves chided, "of course I expected to see him there! Even Al Jezeer had a segment-"

_Never mind UNICEF efforts in South Sudan, mounting multi-drug resistant TB and AIDS toll in Congo that threatened to become a global pandemic._ _Children are still sold as sex slaves in Thailand. Suicide bombers still harry Jerusalem. Cuba is about to have free elections for the first time ever_, she thought, but did not voice. How many students had covered those subjects in their portfolios?

"Trisha, this class is about journalism. About the _news_." He said with one eyebrow raised. "You of all people should know the news changes."

The news changes. No, it didn't. All her life the news had been the same: _we expect more from you. You're a girl. You're smart. You have a two parent home. You're _Asian,_ for goodness sake!_

"You gave me a C," she started, head still lowered humbly, but in truth it was so she wouldn't look into his eyes and see the same disappointment she'd seen in her father's dark eyes since she could remember. "In this class. For my major." She was smart, she knew. She worked hard…and efforts that would have landed every other student that coveted 4.0 left her scrabbling for a 3.2 from well-meaning professors who thought she needed harsher critique and firmer guidance to make her flourish as a writer. Their cumulative good intentions, coupled with Professor Graves' final blow, however, had improved her writing so much as to endanger her academic scholarship. This one class, this one grade, this portfolio—that man Bruce Wayne—was about to destroy her college career. Trisha shuddered. She didn't think she could bear her father's stoic silence and deep-seated disappointment.

"Please," she heard herself beg, "I need this grade."

"Trisha, I'm sorry, but there's not much I can do," her professor explained, grip tightening on her hand. His other hand reached out and gave the back of hers what was meant to be a comforting pat. It rose once or twice, then fell…but his sweaty grip didn't abate.

But Graves just didn't understand…and with this second affirmation of comfort she found herself blurting the awful truth she'd been holding in all semester: she might lose her college money, her place in GSU, her column in the GSU daily, her parent's respect—

He listened to it all, attentively. "You poor, poor thing. You poor, poor child. You need that grade changed desperately, don't you."

"Yes," she said miserably, wiping her tearing dark eyes on the back of her blouse sleeve. "Yes. If you could give me time, I w-write about Bruce Wayne, m-make any corrections, do, do anything-" she rushed.

"…Anything," He interrupted, his voice like a silken purr. And suddenly he was on her, one her like a hound sensing a bitch in heat, heavy hands pouring into her blouse, cradling her breasts, thumbs running over her nipples, he opened his hideous mouth and bit-

She slapped him.

She slapped him.

She slapped him.

Suddenly it was over, and she was cowering in the corner, bare breasts exposed, bra twisted lop-sidedly over her chest with the buttons of her blouse stretched or torn. In shock her tears had dried and she lowered her hands from her shocked mouth to hold shards of her shirt across her naked chest. She felt queasy, felt hot, her face heavy and flushed, her left breast aching from his slobbering jaws. "You," she whispered in outraged betrayal, "you-" but in her native Japanese, her second tongue English, or even her high-school Spanish, Trisha Tanaka could think of no word, curse, or phrase to describe the heinous monster before her. And he was still before her, although this time at a wary distance, his goatish eyes locked lustily to her breasts, his breaths coming in sickening pants.

"You need that grade," Graves said coldly. "And only I can give it to you."

She turned away rather than face him, and shifted herself back into the cups of her bra. She could feel his eyes boring through you. "You won't get another chance," he warned.

"Yes, I will." She said, suddenly emboldened. "I will go to academic committee, lodge complaint against my grade. They will review my portfolio. They will pass me."

He sneered, taking a step closer to grip her arm in his pudgy, piggish hands. "I'll advise against," two fingers stroked the side of her face, tucking a tuft of thick dark hair behind her ear. She shuddered. "Need I remind you I have friends on that committee."

"Not anymore," she defied him, edging closer until their noses were almost touching. "Not after I go to sexual harassment committee."

He chuckled. She blinked.

"What proof do you have?" He barked. "A ripped shirt. Any boy on campus would've done _that_ for free. You could've done it to yourself, knowing I would never change the grade on academic principal, and how desperately you needed to pass. You think you're the first?" He gloated, eyes flashing with delight in memory of previous conquests. "You won't tell. You wouldn't dare. And anyways, you couldn't bear the shame of it once I say that yes, indeed, we'd been enjoying a consensual and rather imaginative affair for the whole semester, and you only went forward after you received a grade not to your liking."

But her resolve did not fail her. She didn't flinch. "You would still be fired. For having sex with student-"

But Graves only sneered. "Tenure. Celebration. Research!" He cried. "A slap on the wrist, and perhaps a semester's sabbatical for the press to die down," he continued. "I'm worth too much for this university to simply set me aside."

But Trisha was tired of unfair treatment from teachers and academic committees. Tired of _expectations_. In all her 22 years, she had never felt so disgusted, so emboldened, and so much alive at once. "If you are so sure, let go my arm. We will see who is right." She wrenched it away. His piggish grip had been frightening, but not strong.

"You're a fool, Trisha Tanaka," he whispered, staring down at her as if in mocking emulation her father's disappointment. "You'll be a little peeping mouse, taking on a lion. I thought you were smarter than that. " He sighed, resigned. "Perhaps I expected too much."

But Trisha was done being a mouse. Done with expectations, disappointments, done with being downtrodden or submissive. If Walter Graves had any hopes of getting out of this unscathed, his last words were chosen poorly. They sealed his fate. "You are no lion," she returned with contempt. "You are a greedy, fat cat, and you have gotten too slow."

Victoriously, she reached into her skirt pocket for her cell phone, already recording. "This little 'mouse' will roar." The split second she'd turned her back was all she'd needed. Not for nothing had Professor Crane taught them in Psychology 101 that eyewitness testimony was known to be unreliable, and often failed to hold up in court without physical evidence to support it. Abram Bramowitz had died demonstrating it…and it wasn't a lesson his classmates would easily forget.

Graves licked his lips, eyes shifting nervously, cowed by that tiny Nokia. She took a sick pleasure in the beads of sweat beginning to line his bald brow and temples. "And if I pass you-?"

"You've already given me a _pass,_" Trisha said curtly, all traces of her halting accent and soft spoken mannerisms gone for good. "I don't need another one." She opened the heavy oaken door with resolve, but he called her back.

"You'll lose your scholarship," Walter Graves crooned desperately. "You'll lose your place in the journalism major and you'll never get it back."

"You'll lose your job, your respect, and your freedom," Trisha Tanaka returned, head held high. "Fair trade."

* * *

**TV 18 Studios**

If Trisha Tanaka had sneered, scoffed, or been shocked at the mention of Bruce Wayne's name in the course of a discussion on international news, she would have soon been proven wrong. Wayne Enterprises' stock surged upwards overnight, despite their media liaison's bewildered insistence that Mr. Wayne's return had no bearing on company policies. Mr Wayne himself, however, proved to be quite a different story…or stories. He crashed a Porche around a telephone pole with the stench of alcohol so strong upon his person no one bothered to take a breathalizer. He walked away unharmed and unticketed, signing his name only to the responding officer's clipboard with a personalized note his wife. He even posed for photos with EMS. Rebecca James, the responding reporter for channel 18, let out a grimace of disgust and let the story die.

Cameron Shaw never did call Vicky Vale, but she had taken her advice. With a new wardrobe, feet sore from stilettos and a large investment in designer make-up she'd moved the TV 18 ranks from promising new intern suggested to management by her boyfriend to reporter within her own right. The right flash of a smile, flip of her blonde hair…and the world came easy to a beautiful woman who wasn't afraid to own it.

"You let it die?" Shaw asked, her pale blue eyes descrying her shock. "Why?"

"I didn't let it die, it was never _alive._" Beck seethed, grating her teeth. "Cam, there was never any _story _to begin with."

"Most of Gotham disagrees," Shaw pouted.

"So does most of America," the red-head continued, "but that doesn't make it any more worthwhile. 'Famous Bruce Wayne wrecks car…again!' The man is such a wasted drunk it baffles me how he's able to get women the way he does."

"Money," Cam yawned. "But the drinking might explain why he goes through them so fast." Character could be overlooked, but no gorgeous woman worth her salt wanted a hot date who lacked solid follow through. When she told her co-worker, Rebecca James snorted milk out her nose.

* * *

**Office of the District Attorney**

"Can you believe this?" Carl Finch asked aloud. "Three responding officers, fifteen news crews and no one makes the arrest?"

Rachel Dawes blanched, seeing Bruce on the news again. Like that, again. But the Bruce Wayne who returned from Bhutan was not the Bruce Wayne she had missed. It was like the real man had died, and left this imposter in his place to tarnish her memories of him. Their fight over that arrowhead, running from the police after Tomny Lancaster's drunken high school party, a stolen kiss and a lost virginity in his dormroom at Princeton…

"Bruce _Wayne_," Carl said with fierce vehemence and sadness rolled together. He caught her eyes, and softened. "I'm sorry, Rachel," he stated mildly while blipping the TV to off, "but damned if Thomas never deserved a son like this. It's an insult to the man's memory."

_I know_, Rachel thought, returning to her take-out Chinese dinner and paperwork for the Zsasz case. _I know_. The last time she'd seen Bruce he'd been bloodthirsty for vengeance for his father's killer. Now it seemed he could care less about the man's name or reputation.

…._so why is he doing this?_

* * *

**Tanaka Residence**

"…_and in other news, our viewers will be thrilled to hear the Mr. Wayne suffered only minor injuries and was treated on scene for his wounds. The Wayne public spokesman confirms that at this time the billionaire and Andreía Arenga still plan to attend tomorrow night's Black and White Masquerade, where she will model both Chanel and Dior-"_

"-and no one cares," she finished, blipping the TV off.

…At least they shouldn't. Trisha Tanaka was energetic, but dispassionate, and until Graves' groping hands she'd never truly hated anyone in her entire life; but she had found a deep-seated dislike for Bruce Wayne. Even if his name hadn't come up in that horrible office encounter, Trisha believed she would still bear him a semblance of ill will. As a journalist, it was her job to be objective, but in the weeks following Wayne's miraculous 'reappearance' she found herself turning off the television in saddened distaste. Was that what the American public wanted? Was that really what her media had to offer? Was there any pride, any information, any real relevance in the news she was bombarded with? The night that CNN coverage spoke in detail about Wayne's date's choice of dress and matching jade jewelry was the closest she'd ever come to giving up—or throwing something at her monitor.

But she was working on a piece about corruption in local law enforcement, and the growing power of Carmide Falconi. It was the shocking relevance of this story that had saved her, she was sure. She'd gotten it published in the school paper, and someone had slashed her father's car tires and smashed the windshield for her trouble. Perhaps no one but the perpetrator had read it, and perhaps no one else even cared…but for one man in this city of millions, the truth had struck a nerve.

She'd kept the clip, taped inside her scrapbook where no one could see. At 22, her father still insisted she live at home, and it wouldn't do for him to find the article taped to her bedroom mirror. The attack had frightened her mother to hysterical tears, and her father insisted the story be withdrawn. He called the police, 'like any respectable citizen', and that more than anything let Trisha know her father hadn't bother to read the article he had so vehemently condemned.

She told him she'd retracted it. It was the first outright lie she'd ever told him. Sneaking off campus with Micheal during lunch breaks or after classes for quick sex was one thing, and pretending to her family for all appearance's sake to have dropped 'that horrid African' was another, but this newest deceit had come shockingly easy.

When the Batman first appeared, Trisha was one of the few who took real interest, and her new-found skills in lying to her parents allowed her the freedom she needed to begin crafting her story. She interviewed eye-witnesses, stalked the streets at night in neighborhoods were he was prone to roam. Several newspapers had picked the story up as a gag, treating this 'superhero' as a bit of urban legend and as a spot of fun. Most accredited him to drunks, or hallucinating drug users. Some said it was a college kid out having a little midnight crisis. And while Trisha was informed enough to know that in Gotham the ADA's often lied, she'd done her homework on this Rachel Dawes. Dawes was honest, brave, and had integrity-three qualities that were a rarity in politics anywhere, let alone Gotham. So if Rachel Dawes said a man in a black bat costume had rescued her on the subway, Trisha Tanaka believed her. And if this 'Bat Man' (as the papers were calling him) had saved an enemy of Falconi from rape or death, he had to know what he was up against. Every act had a motive, and the more heroic the act the stronger the mindset of the one who committed it. Who was the Bat Man? Why would he be willing to cross Falconi? Where did he come from? And, most importantly, what did he want?

The Bat Man—Batman, she decided, scribbling more notes in her scrapbook diary—had a motive. And if she could determine what that might be, she could unlock the mystery of who this masked crusader really was. Like the patron of an up and coming artist, she'd taken interest even before the Batman had become recognized, and she took silent pride in watching his fame grow. _I believed in him first,_ she thought. _I wanted him to be real._ But more importantly, she _understood_.

Gotham was her home. She was the poor, the tired, the hungry, the huddled masses wanting to breathe free. This country—her country—had taken her family in after the earthquake, and just when it seemed her whole world had been ripped apart, America had been there. Lady Liberty had embraced her with open, welcoming arms in her family's darkest hour of need. She had been too young to know that not all had been so fortunate, that neighbors had starved, died of sickness, or had been washed away in the flood. But even then, at six years old, Trisha Tanaka had realized that she was grateful and indebted. She would give back to this country, this city, this new home where the people were taller, fatter, paler, and spoke to her funny with wide smiles.

Trisha had done all she could to fit in. She'd changed her name. Learned English. Made top grades. Became editor of her high school newspaper, been elected most likely to succeed, and graduated in the top ten percent of her private high school class. Any American father would have been proud of her, but when Trisha had announced her intentions to pursue a career in journalism, Isao Tanaka growled that she was wasting her life, he himself had gone to college to get a doctorate in applied physics. Her sister, Hana-now-Hannah was working on her graduate degree in mathematics.

"You need a real degree," her father insisted. "There are too many journalists. Not enough engineers. America needs scientists." But her parents loved her, even if they disapproved, and after what could have only been her mother's careful and meticulous manipulation they gave into her youthful whims and allowed her to enroll at GSU.

They would nod politely when she spoke of her interests and passions, and would hurriedly change the subject when questioned by relatives as to her current affairs. Her sister Hannah now had a three year-old daughter, and darling little Gracie made for a wonderful conversation piece to distract even the most disapproving from her choices. But as her years in undergrad passed Trisha began to suspect that the joke was wearing thin.

"It's really quite dreadful of you, you know," Hannah had said. "No one expected you to take it so far. You should have switched majors your second semester or your sophomore year. It's what everyone expected. Then you could have found a decent man with a real career who father approved of and gotten married, like me."

If her family begrudged her educational choices, it was nowhere near the hostility they'd shown Micheal. When Trisha had brought her date home for family dinner her parents and grandparents, though all spoke fluent English and had insisted on "English Only" to help their daughters adjust, had spoken solely in Japanese.

"If he'd been white, that'd be one thing," Isao Tanaka had scolded her loudly. "But a black man? Don't you know that black men are lazy? They don't have jobs? They never marry and always divorce? If you'd gone into science you would have met good men."

Odd, wasn't it, that the few pieces of American culture her father managed to introduce to his tenacious personal beliefs were those of prejudice. She'd taken the criticism demurely, saving face before her family, before retiring to her room. It was the closest to anger at her parents that she'd ever come. She didn't hate them, she was simply done with them. Done with their rules, their antiquated traditions, their chauvenism. Done with standards and expectations. She wanted to walk out of the house after Micheal and damn the consequences, but love—not respect—for her family had condemned her to stay.

"It's my life, my choices," she said. "Since when do any of us have to live up to everyone else's expectations?" Trisha was both blessed and cursed to think for herself. Things came to her slowly at first, and she made more mistakes than others—but she couldn't be fooled. Even as a child she took twice as long to talk as her older sister, but when she finally spoke it was short yet concise sentences that played on her chubby lips.

But Hannah had only smiled sadly. "We're all citizens, Trish, but you have to realize that you're the only true 'American' in the family." It was true. She had been the youngest, the most impressionable, had spent the majority of her life here in the states. And however much her parents had openly adopted their new country's language, dress, and business practices, they clung to their cultural ideals. Her sister called her 'progressive', her parents, a rebel. Her acquaintances thought she was one of the most conservative people they knew. Micheal bristled when she spoke of her family, but she couldn't very well disown them. "They're my family. You're my choice. They'll most likely never accept you, but I do," she'd whispered more than once across the pillow on their lunch dates. "Isn't that enough for you?"

Trisha Tanaka did what she did because she was American, she was a Gothamite, and she had adopted this country and this city when it had adopted her. She took pride in the freedoms they allowed her, unlike her parents who respected their savior unquestioningly. Her father thought it the height of arrogance to question the government or the news, "There can't be corruption in a freely elected government," he would reprimand her. "Too many people are holding them accountable." They simply didn't understand. But this Batman, she decided as she pasted another clipping onto the stiff, recycled paper of her scrapbook, was holding criminals accountable where the government failed.

_He owes this City something,_ she realized. _Just like me._

* * *

**Office of the District Attorney**

The Zsasz trial was going poorly, Rachel knew. Now only was the audience flooded with sadistic fans of he man's grotesque 'art', their court appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Quinzel, had a sick fascination with the defendant and had spent no less than 3 weeks now examining him. The doctor's explanation to Surillo was that Victor Zsasz had a 'unique and undetermined mental illness', and had deemed it both unwise and unjust to diagnose him or let him stand trial prematurely. The defense, in turn, like many defending child pornographers for countless years, had called Mr. Zsasz's first amendment rights into question, as the defendant labeled his killings art. Art was protected as freedom of expression, and it would henceforth be unconstitutional for a jury to find him guilty.

Rachel Dawes didn't often curse her constitutional law class, but this trial had gotten the best of her. She was overworked, underpaid, undersexed, and now she was losing her jury to a ridiculous defense crafted out of illogical thinking and blatant ignorance of the founding father's intent.

Finch thought Quinzel was clean, but she herself wasn't so sold. Falconi had bought men—and women, she couldn't forget Chill's parole hearing—everywhere in Gotham, and the old Italian was getting smarter about hiding the evidence. Harleen Quinzel's financials checked out, but there were other methods of payment that could go unlooked.

"They got him, they got him!" She heard happy voices ringing from Finch's office. Part of her grumbled, not wanting to deal with anyone at the moment happier than she was: she feared for their safety should they ask her to join their celebration.

But it was Finch, Finch and another ADA, pouring what looked to be not their first, or hardly second glass of champagne.

"They found him, alright. With evidence all around, and trussed up to a light like a Christmas turkey!" Finch laughed, pouring wine for another round both into their glasses and onto his desk. "Carmide Falconi, in police custody! Never thought I'd see it!"

She dropped her purse in shock. It landed with a soft WHUMP!, but no one seemed to care. Finch rushed forward to usher her inside, and before the shock had worn off he was handing her a glass as well.

"Drink up, drink up!" The second man insisted. "It's not everyday we have cause to celebrate. Not in this job."

"Not in this city!" their boss rejoined. "Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent. He's a slick bastard, and I think he's after my job." Finch laughed.

But this Harvey Dent only shook his head ruefully. "Not anytime soon, I fear. If the police have finally gotten their act together it might mean an increase in paperwork. Alas, I leave you to it."

"They cannot conquer, not forever!" Finch quoted merrily. From her own confusion and the mirrored expression on Dent's face, it must've been something obscure like _Star Trek, _classic _Doctor Who_, or _Lord of the Rings_. Finch might have been mild mannered and droll as a boss and as a bed-partner, but his hobbies had been quite eccentric.

"I'm still not sold," Dent shrugged. "If this man is on our side, why doesn't he unmask himself, come forward?"

"Because it is still our job to catch him and put him away," Carl stated firmly "Falconi or no Falconi, I'm still the District Attorney."

"But you just said-" Rachel began, and was interrupted.

"I respect the Batman, yes," Finch shrugged. "So I'll do my best to stay within the rules and catch him. But just because it's my job doesn't mean I can't support him."

"Isn't that a little hypocritical?" Dent grinned, eying her for what she thought looked like more than just support. "A little conflict of interest?"

They continued to laugh and jest, and her lack of participation was quickly noted by Dent, who acquiesced to her indifference with a polite nod and a wink that said _you know where to find me._

"It does seem a bit contradictory, Carl." She noted, glancing up weary-eyed from a journal article citing precedence and the First Amendment.

"He's one to talk," Finch stated mildly once ADA Dent had left the room.

"Pardon?" Rachel asked.

"That's Harvey," he explained as if she were a wayward daughter who needed protecting. "Harvey Two-face. He used to be internal affairs. I'd stay away from that one if I were you." He grabbed his jacket, and fumbled into the sleeves.

"Carl, where are you going?" It was late, it was dark, it was cold, and he'd already had several drinks—

"Out," he said simply, but with a sincere and boyish smile that melted her heart. Even after their sterile break up there were times she missed him. "Like I said, I'm still district attorney, and I can't very well let the Batman do my job for me, eh?"

Little did she know those were the last words he would speak to her. Three weeks later they fished his corpse out of the river. She never said the words out loud, but deep down inside she blamed the Batman for her and Gotham's collective misery. If that masked vigilante had never plagued her city, Carl Finch would never have played the hero. Police were still baffled as to why he had braved the docks alone at night and who it was who shot him no less than 18 times in the back. But whoever his anonymous killers were, they kept their silence while sending a message loud enough for all of Gotham to hear.

_You weren't the Doctor_, she thought sadly, placing a white rose on the top of the dark casket in Sisters of Mercy Sanctuary during the state sponsored funeral. _You weren't Captain Kirk, you weren't Aragorn. You were more than that. More than that to Gotham, more than that to me._

* * *

**Wayne Manor**

Wayne Manor.

In a way it was proper he should be here, Chris Holden thought. He'd grown up in the Palisades, after all, lived his entire life in the shadow of Wayne Manor but had never once stepped foot on the estate itself; but it went deeper than that. Although not his earliest childhood memory, the 'Day that Gotham Wept' was one of his clearest, and Thomas Wayne's demise and following funeral had left a significant impression on his young mind. His own father had revered the late Mr. Wayne, and had sworn to continue the man's legacy.

Liam Holden had made several advancements as Mayor, it was true; but like Thomas Wayne, most of his philanthropic accomplishments had perished with him. The subway that Thomas had provided was now rank and dangerous, likewise the school system his father had tried to desperately to redeem. It was sad that great deeds should perish with such great men, but such was the way of the world, and Chris, as an adult and as an objective journalist, had come to acknowledge this fact.

…but he'd be damned the day he ever accepted it. One didn't become and stay an honest journalist in this city without great cost or effort. This Bruce Wayne had once made him go into hiding, risk his life against Carmide 'the Roman' Falconi. And while Rachel Dawes had certainly been worth it, Christopher Holden now seriously doubted that Bruce Wayne himself ever was.

Years ago he'd deduced that Wayne had meant to kill Chill, knew that the man had had it in him to be a killer…and part of him would have preferred it Wayne had stayed that way. It was better to be a criminal than the drunken fop before them tonight, who cared nothing about vengeance, or anything at all besides his next drink or fuck. The man wasn't simply dispassionate-he was _apassionate. _Nothing mattered. Nothing bothered him, not even the memory of his parents' death. He couldn't be bothered to concern himself with trivial niceties like consideration; three hours tardy for his own birthday party stretched the definition of fashionably late to the worst-dressed A list awards.

Scattered applause. The orchestra began the tune, and nearly 100 smiling guests—all too happy to wait so long as the wine and hors d' eouvre kept flowing—turned in unison to the ballooned entry-way to wish their smiling host a very happy birthday, indeed.

"Thank you, thank you," Wayne toasted them mindlessly, then began to mingle. He was immediately swamped by his admirers, and Chris thought it more prudent to wait for the rush to die down. Those were the _guests_, after all; he was here by right of press pass. Wayne had fired his personal media liaison, and for several months now had enjoyed paparazzi treatment and fanfare by opening all his society functions to whichever members of the press were dressed the finest, showed the most cleavage, or (once) willing to do the complete hokey pokey in front of their peers. Luckily, Chris hadn't had to jump through that particular hoop, and prided himself with full knowledge that if it had come to shaming himself in public for a chance to be within 20 yards of the famous Bruce Wayne or missing a story, he'd happily pass. Unlike other Gotham celebrities who offered public apology and chagrin for their drunken antics, Wayne was always happy to re-oblige his readers.

Tonight proved no exception. Chris could only listen, stunned—and hurt, for Rachel Dawes' sake—to the fool of a man before him: "Everyone, everybody, I uh, wanna thank you all for coming here tonight and drinking all my booze. No really, there's a thing about being a Wayne that you're never short of a few free loaders like yourselves to fill up your mansion with, so here's to you people. To all you phonies, all you two-faced friends, you sycophantic suck ups, who smile through your teeth at me, please, leave me in peace. Please go, stop smiling, it's not a joke. Please leave, the party's over. Get out."

_Get out_.

He left. He retrieved his car from Wayne Manor's enormous front lawn, and drove off, this time not caring if he left ruts in the multi-thousand dollar landscaping. He almost found pleasure in the thought of ruining Wayne's flower beds, but felt a stab of sickness for his own immaturity. And that's what Wayne was, really: Immature. He was a petulant, bored child who did and got everything he wanted. The world was his for the taking, so take it he did.

Chris felt a new emotion rising, so sudden and hot he had to pull over before the tears blinded him and he slid off the road: pity. A stab of pity went through his heart for the ruined man, for the boyhood friend and once boyfriend of Rachel Dawes. Because he knew. He understood, and that realization, that pain, was just too raw and gaping.

Wayne was like him...son to a great man, growing up in his shadow, surrounded by admirers and expectations since the day he could walk…

…But Chris had had something that was stolen from Bruce Wayne: a family. He'd been a senior in high school when his father died, took his last breath in his arms…Wayne was only a child.

Back in his apartment, Chris stripped out of his tux and donned his running gear. In 35 minutes on the treadmill he'd barely cleared his mind or emotions, but he had put in 5.2 very good miles and his calves were starting to burn. He slowed to a cool down, and let his mind focus on the task at hand. He hadn't even begun to process his story. It had to sell, network had made clear—but there was precious little to cover about the actual party. And he had an obligation to his father—and to Gotham—to tell the truth. A public interest story about Bruce Wayne that didn't use the word 'sexy' or 'single' even once…a story that dwelt on the man's past, not his sordid present or pending rehab.

Was there even a news corporation left in Gotham willing to run a story like that—?

His cell rang. It was approaching midnight, i.e. his deadline for submission. He answered the phone without even glancing at the niumber.

"Chrissy!" Clarrisa Holden's voice rang. "Where the hell are you?"

Chris was taken aback, and gaped for a moment into his blue tooth phone. "_Mom?_" Why the unexpected call? And why (a very small, but very annoyed part of him groaned inwardly) after 30 years, did she still insist on calling him _Chrissy?_

"Are you at the hospital?" The busy-body widow raced. "Which one? What room? Where are you?"

"_Hospital?_ No mom, I was covering Wayne's party, but he sent us all home."

"Oh, thank God!" There was something about her tone that made him sit up, and take this conversation more seriously.

"Mom-?"

"You call yourself a reporter? Have you seen the news?" Clarissa Holden's voice still managed to drip with sarcasm even if the pitch was a hysterical panic. "Wayne Manor just burnt to the ground. I would know-I called the fire department myself."

Bruce Wayne. He'd just spent the last hour finding the man's humanity…

Chris shut his eyes. Tightly. "Oh, God."

* * *

**TV 18 Studios**

**DRUNKEN BILLIONAIRE BURNS MANOR!**

**Prince of the Palisades, a Pyromaniac?**

**Bruce Wayne suffers burns in fiery inferno!**

**Billionaire Birthday Bash a Fiery Fiasco!**

**Chief Fire Inspector Haddad rules Wayne Manor fire 'accidental cause'**

"This is ridiculous!" Rebecca James complained, throwing the _Gotham City Star_ down in disgust. "Fear Night made page 2? It's only been a week-!"

Cameron Shaw shrugged. "And thousands of people are dead, injured, or still missing. The entirety of the Narrows is still on police lock-down without city water. Can you blame people—or the government—for wanting a little distraction right now?"

Beck sighed, and pulled the Star from the garbage bin. "You're…you're right Cam," she whispered sadly. "I…I just forget sometimes." Her friend was right, and she was learning, she noted. When Shaw had first been hired on she'd been a little bit naïve about the government's role in 'misdirecting', if not outright silencing the press in Gotham City. Another drunken billionaire bluster with a staggering loss of property but no serious injuries or casualties was just the thing to steal the public's attention.

Cam smiled warmly. "Not everyone is as level-headed as you are. Besides," she grinned, "that paper is written intended for an eighth grade reading level or less. We both went to _college_."

"So what you're saying is sometimes I can be pretty stupid for a smart person?" the red-head teased, sipping an early morning latte.

"And sometimes for a reporter you can be so unobservant," Cam said with feigned disinterest, splaying the fingers of her left hand on the desk before them with a casual shrug.

"Sorry, _unobservant_?" Rebecca James asked, bewildered.

Cameron Shaw sighed in defeat and held out her hand. "He proposed." Beck let out a squeal and jumped out of her chair, oohing and aahing over the impressive 24 carat gemstone and seamless platinum band.

"When? Where? How?" Beck rushed nearly five minutes later after she'd finally stopped oogling the ring with a rapturous expression and handed it back with joking reluctance.

Cam launched into the story with high enthusiasm and enough volume to notify the entire office of what had transpired. "It was Fear Night, of all things—not that I'm complaining but not what I had in mind at all!—and the big fool just shows up at my doorstep still in his running clothes and asked me plain up 'Cameron Shaw, will you marry me? Please?' and he was crying, and so then I was crying, and Natalie was over and she had to bundle us both back inside and shut the door so we wouldn't catch the toxin-"

"On _Fear Night_-?" Beck asked incredulously. "Why on earth then?"

"Apparently he'd had the whole thing planned for ages—he didn't let me keep the ring until last night, he had reservations for _le canard bleu_ and all, but the whole thing just scared him so badly what with everybody dying an all." Cam gushed, relishing in the memory and spotlight. Beck knew her friend had a propensity to become the center of attention, but supposed this time Shaw had actually earned it, so she let it slip.

"Congratulations, Mr. Holden," Jenkins from network said drily in passing. "And just how did you manage that?"

Chris Holden spent more than 100 hours a week at the station, and constantly had his nose to a computer screen or mobile device, tracking more than 50 global networks at any given time. Some thought he took his job a little too seriously, like Jenkins. Chris tore his eyes of his gushing bride-to-be and grinned. "I've found luring them in with big, shiny rocks has worked well for me so far. What about you, sir?"

Touché. It was a well known fact that Jenkins wife of 27 years had left him last spring.

* * *

**Office of the (Interim) District Attorney**

_Interim _District Attorney, emphasis on the interim. Her co-workers and the press addressed her by her proper job title, yes; but the tone still stung. In the wake of Fear Night they'd all agreed she'd was far too young, too inexperienced, and too _female _for the job itself, but given Finch's disappearance and subsequent death, someone had to fill his shoes. Even Rachel herself thought it odd they had chosen her. Some with more experience whispered behind their hands that she'd slept with someone somewhere high up to get the position.

Yes, she'd slept with Carl Finch—no, more than that, a small part of her had actually loved the man, but it wasn't as if he'd had either the time or political authority to name his successor. Let them whisper. Let them continue to think that beauty and intelligence were mutually exclusive concepts.

But it was hard, hard to sit in this office, in this chair, to fill the shoes—however temporarily—of the man she'd known and begrudgingly loved. It was even harder to meet the up-and-coming contenders, all tripping over themselves for this office and the chance to further their careers. She wasn't surprised in the least, then, when Carl's—her—secretary announced that ADA Harvey Dent was asking for a meeting, and a little advice.

It was a blustery Tuesday afternoon when the young, confident attorney knocked sheepishly on her door. "Miss Dawes?" He asked, a twinkle in his eyes as he shook her proffered hand. "Let me introduce myself-"

"Carl was right," she stated simply, smiling despite herself.

"Pardon?" Dent asked, their outstretched hands still grasped.

"You were after his job."

He chuckled. "He was wrong. I'm only running because he isn't here. Carl Finch did this job a damn sight better than I ever will—he didn't have the support of the legal system or the police yet. If our luck with this Batman holds, I'll have that."

"If you get elected," Rachel reminded him.

"Only too true," he rued. "My excuse for a campaign manager can't even find a decent running platform. Testimonials," he enunciated with contempt. "I Believe In Harvey Dent"—what sort of slogan is _that_? Well, guess it's cheap, it's catchy, and considering my budget, it's the best I can hope for."

Despite Finch's unease with the man, Rachel found herself respecting him. Unlike the other candidates, Dent had spent his career in public service, first IA, then as an ADA. His campaign budget and the time away from work giving speeches and attracting a following were all subtracted from a government salary barely large enough to pay his rent and outstanding law school debt, she was only certain. She found herself in the same situation, and could empathize readily. But mostly it was because he still felt fresh, new, hardly naïve but unburdened and undaunted by the fact the DA's job was to watch criminals go free despite his best efforts.

…which was a lot, given that his competitors were those whose job, right up until the minute they took office, was getting those criminals back onto the streets by whatever means possible. Harvey Dent, Rachel knew, answered to conscience alone. Every other applicant answered to whatever lies, manipulations, or theatrics would win their cases and their checks.

They walked from the courthouse to a café 2 blocks away, crammed with the lunch time crowd of anonymous suits and briefcases. Harvey Dent was quite the charmer, without being outright flirtacious in the slightest. He had…charisma, Rachel finally decided as they shared pleasantries about the state of affairs in Gotham's politics. But halfway through what seemed a very promising conversation on the justice department Harvey Dent asked her a question that left her dumbfounded.

"So…would you be interested in saying that in front of a camera?"

"What?" Rachel asked, taken aback.

"I just told you what I thought about what this city needs from it's justice department," he reiterated with confidence, folding his hands and leaning across the table towards her. "You just told me you couldn't agree more. You were either lying outright, nodding along because you find me boring and are trying to speed up the process of getting rid of me, or you were genuinely agreeing and so my question remains."

"You want me to be a spokesman for your campaign?" She repeated, dazed.

"You were Finch's favorite, you were in the press for the Zsasz trial, and from the dossier I had a PI make—sorry, old habits die hard—you're clean and honest. Gotham knows you, Gotham _likes _you, and I could use that to get elected." Harvey explained with a grin that bordered on arrogant.

"You think you can just walk into my office, buy me lunch and ask me to do that-?" she replied coldly. His answer surprised her.

"No. Because that'd be tantamount to selling your soul," he admitted adamantly, "and I won't play the devil. What I'm asking is if you, knowing the full consequences and weight your vote of confidence can carry for Gotham, would consider—really consider—what I've said here today and think on that. Do you, Miss Dawes, _truly believe in Harvey Dent_? And then maybe in a few days, once you've had enough time to make up your mind, you could give my office a call and inform me of your decision, either way."

She blinked. "Yes."

He grin broadened. "You'll think on it? Excellent."

But that yes wasn't what he thought it meant, and Rachel Dawes herself wasn't sure what it implied, either. Yes, this is what Gotham needed. A hero. An elected man in an office cleaning up the streets through the legal system, unafraid of the corruption and organized crime that held her city in a vice. Yes, this is what Carl Finch tried to be, but lacked the charisma, the charm, the wit to sell this dream to Gotham's populace. And now this man—that dream—was looking to her, and she could make it happen. A Gotham like Thomas Wayne's Gotham, a Gotham where Batman would no longer be needed…

The question was did she truly believe in Harvey Dent. And the answer—her answer—was yes.

She shook her head, determined. "You misunderstand, Mr. Dent. I'll do it."

He caught her gaze, and held it for a long moment, and in that intervening silence much passed between them unspoken. They shared a common dream, a common vision, a common suffering. "Please," he said after that long pause, "call me Harvey."

Later that night, she lay awake, pondering the significance of that lunch time encounter. _Please, call me Harvey_. Those words had been innocent enough, but Harvey Dent had made himself perfectly clear. He didn't just need her words backing him politically, he wanted her there was well. Wanted someone else who shared his vision. Harvey Dent had been more than willing to accept that she was a beautiful woman and intelligent, and he would be more than happy to let her demonstrate both.

She'd already made a professional commitment to him. A professional commitment based on full understanding and trust, knowing the consequences her actions would have on the outcome of this upcoming election. She hardly knew the man, but she trusted him. Trusted him completely…trusted him with her city. Would it be such a leap to make a personal commitment to him as well-?

In high school, there'd hormones and pressure, but Rachel Dawes had had her eyes set on one man, and one man only. Even in college, when her roommates and sorority sisters were having nameless, casual sex, Rachel could never bring herself to do the same. She'd given herself to Bruce, and when Bruce had abandoned her she'd turned to a short string of other men to quench that loneliness while she waited for him to come home to her. Now her Odysseus had returned to Gotham, but he'd hadn't come home for her…and if she was honest with herself, she had been no faithful Penelope. She'd sought refuge in the arms of other men before, refuge until Bruce came back for her…but now she doubted he ever would.

She picked up Harvey's business card and turned it over in her fingers, pondering. She wondered if it was time to move on. Wondered if it was fair to Bruce, so soon…then she wondered if Bruce should even matter anymore. Hadn't she wasted enough of her life waiting for him? What if the end _wasn't_ in sight? Given the turmoil Fear Night had created, could there ever truly be a day when Gotham didn't need the Batman? But mostly she wondered that she had never truly waited for him before…

She rolled over in bed, and she wondered if Harvey Dent already had dinner plans for the following evening. _The man I loved never came back_, she decided firmly. _I have to move on. I have to be strong enough to let him go…at least for now._

"The man I loved never came back," she'd told Bruce not three weeks before, and had kissed him chastely on the cheek…

She didn't know then that those words would come back to haunt her. A year later, she would say them again, this time in a note that would never reach its reader: _When I told you that if Gotham no longer needed Batman we could be together. I meant it. But I'm not sure the day will come when you no longer need Batman, and if it does, I will be there, but as your friend. I'm sorry to let you down. If you lose your faith in me, please keep your faith in people. Love, now and always, Rachel._

* * *

**Tokyo, Japan**

Being back was…strange.

It wasn't home—Gotham was her home—but it wasn't her childhood home, either. Her town had been completely obliterated, and what little of her family remained in Japan had left the Fukushima prefecture. She'd come to visit her cousin Yuki (and to find a husband, her mother had hinted strongly, unaware of her and Micheal's nightly skyping), and she felt out of place in the capital. Gotham was a large city by American standards, yes; but it was still an _American _city, full of historical districts, slums, residential neighborhoods and at least 8 different styles of architecture. Tokyo was different, modern, sleek and sexy, bold and brash. There was so much progress here and not enough feeling of history, although she knew this country—this very city—had stood centuries before either Columbus or the Vikings (or the Chinese, as some claimed) had first discovered the new world.

If her vocabulary had suffered, at least her accent was okay. She didn't sound nikkeijin, to Yuki's great relief, but her cousin's friends had picked up on it anyway due to her profound lack of knowledge of popular slang and culture. But all had been willing to forgive her those faults when they discovered her 'secret lover', as Yuki called him: the Batman. As soon as she'd mentioned that she was from Gotham City they'd begged her to tell her all about him.

She hadn't known he had such a popular overseas following, seeing as in Gotham he was either largely unknown, unrecognized, and—if you were to believe the papers—unliked. At first she found comfort that university students here didn't find her obsession with a crime-fighting vigilante unusual in the slightest. However, their shared interest once she explained the situation was if anything slightly disappointing. "Batman, he must be so hot!" Was the general reaction she got from women within a decade of her age in either direction. He was hot, he was cool, he was sooo totally American…Trisha was a little devastated to learn that her hero was a little bit of a joke, and that these glorified pre-teenagers treated her Batman like he was the love interest in some smarmy _manga_.

Yuki, as Trisha quickly learned, was enjoying her little stint at university and liked to party hard core. Trisha didn't have a younger sibling, and despite childhood yearnings for another playmate, after two weeks of babysitting her younger cousin at every social outing she silently thanked her parents for sparing her this for 21 years. So on the (rare) nights she wasn't holding her cousin's long tresses back out of the toilet after too much beer or waiting anxiously on the results of yet another pregnancy test after Yuki'd shown up half-dressed and high (again), she enjoyed a little downtime by keeping up with news from home. The Batman was all the rage right now, it appeared, after driving what looked like a tank through the middle of the Narrows.

…apparently he wasn't just a nutjob with a ski-mask as many had so previously claimed. He was a financially well-off nutjob with what police now believed to be full body Kevlar armor and a military arsenal. That had taken Trisha aback. Her hero wasn't what she had thought him to be, but that didn't mean she'd been wrong about him-

"Trisha," Yuki whined from the kitchen doorway, wiping her streaming eyes and runny nose from tonight's cocaine lines. "It's like 3 am. What are you watching?"

"The news. You should try it sometime," she retorted, and held up her ear-buds as promise she'd mute the offending broadcast. Yuki grunted, and staggered back to their shared bedroom. The flat wasn't large, so Trisha had had to resort to odd hours to get some privacy.

"Who is this masked man?" Mike Engel asked on GCN's You Decide. "Is he a nuisance or a knight?" There was a public push to know this stranger's true identity, but the more she learned about him, the more Trisha became ambivalent. Her father's car had been destroyed for two simple paragraphs on the sixth page of one local college newspaper. She could hardly blame this man for wearing a mask. It was his actions, not his face that revealed his purpose, Trisha came to know.

The Batman didn't disappoint her. She sat through the terror of Fear Night live broadcast half a world away while her cousin tried awkwardly to console her. They huddled together in bed and cried, and the whole time Yuki never said a word, just held her hand or stroked her hair. She wasn't such a bad kid, after all, Trisha decided through her tears.

But despite her horror and sadness for the destruction of her city it hadn't surprised her in the least that not three days later 'Daisuki Battoman!' graphic T's were already being worn on the streets of Tokyo, complete with an anonymous artist's chibi cartoon of the caped crusader. The Batman was a hero—a sensationalist hero—and one who resonated, even here. He had to wear that mask, she decided while she and Yuki were purchasing T's of their own from a street vendor, to transcend his humanity, to personify ideas that had no faces.

Unlike the newscasters and politicians, she felt no suspicion or fear of this vigilante. Regardless of the features or race that lay hidden under cape and cowl, this man, this _Batman_, was a friend, a defender, and a protector. He owed her City something, and with that knowledge Trisha was content. She too, wore a mask, she had to lie to her family, deceive them if necessary to keep them in their blissful unawares; but her loyalty to her City could never be compromised or questioned.

It was the same with the Batman, Trisha Tanaka had long ago decided. She only wondered why no one else could descry it. Perhaps they weren't looking.

…perhaps they didn't want to. Perhaps sometimes when circumstances get frightening enough, we'd rather turn away than uncover the awful truth.

* * *

**AN: Finch's quote is Frodo's line from **_**The Two Towers,**_** the second installment in **_**TheLord of the Rings**_** (books-the line never made it to film). But how did Chris Holden know Jim Gordon, Rachel, and so much about Bruce? Who is this mysterious HYAENA? Visit Ernestina's spin off Fugitive to find out!**


	39. Odysseus Returns

_**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**_

**AN: In lieu of The Dark Knight Rises (which I refuse to see until I finish this fic due to conflicting character representations), I'm updating a 'teaser' chapter. This is the finished portion of this arc so far. Enjoy! The completed chapter will encompass the time period between Batman Begins and TDK up to present day Ernestina-verse. And then, finally, dear (and very patient) readers, we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming!**

* * *

**This prose was graciously reprinted here with permission from the Wayne Legacy Foundation. It originally appeared in print in the Wayne Legacy Foundation's compendium MEMORIUM, an annual periodical devoted entirely to persons and families of persons who perished after the fall of the Legacy tower August 19****th****, 2030.**

I was still 26 years from being born on September 11th, 2001. When Fear Night struck Gotham, my mother was pregnant. And when the Legacy fell and threatened to careen this nation into a third World War, I was only three years old. I don't remember much about any of these events, and have my age to blame.

But despite the lack of memories and the sheltering I received from adults at that time, growing up my father had a favorite phrase: never forget. When I was a child, I never understood what my father meant. How could I _never forget_ something I wasn't there for? How could I _never forget_ something I can't even _remember_?

I am no longer a child. And as I have aged, I think I understand him. You see, for a year as a child, I had a brother. I look at photographs of the two of us playing, and know these memories must be real even though I have no recollection of building snowmen, flying kites or benevolently bestowing on him my ratty teddy bear although he was nineteen years older.

I don't remember Jimmy. But I will _never forget_ him, either.

To me, he will always be a photograph. To the little boy in those photographs, he was simply a brother, a playmate, and a friend. But the rest of Gotham knew him only as Jimmy Connolly, the lost Angel of Mercy, the Boy Who Lived. But unlike all the other survivors of the Sisters of Mercy Fosterhome Fire, my brother had the audacity not only to live, but live _well_. Jimmy Connolly went on to become a Detective for GCPD Homicide, and became a symbol of hope for not only Gotham but the United States as the Crying Cop, the iconic face of the Wayne Legacy Foundation's Stop the Violence Program.

But Jimmy Connolly isn't just a photograph. He is a voice as well. A voice, even though dead, that cannot be silenced. My brother had been chosen as the spokesman for Stop the Violence, and in a televised interview went on to tell his story for the entire world: "Only you can choose to stop the violence, to have the courage to say it ends here. No more."

But as you all know, that interview was never aired. That parade never finished. That life never lived. At 14:00 hours on Monday, August 19th 2030, an RPG hit the Governor's van and seconds later the Wayne Legacy Tower fell to the city streets, killing over thirty-five thousand people and families below. Then a man called the Joker escaped. The Batman returned. A woman by the name of Guinevere Paltron went on an Ernestine that left Gotham reeling in her wake. A rogue terrorist organization pitted our nation against the People's Republic and the world shuddered again in the shadow of nuclear war. There have been countless documentaries, popularized historical and fictionalized accounts of what happened next, and I have seen both myself, my father, and my brother portrayed in far too many writings and by far too many actors to count. But while these many remakings and refashionings of those events help a modern generation understand, they cannot make us _never forget_. To never forget, to _Stop the Violence_ depends on us, each and every one of us, and the memories we ourselves choose to preserve.

We will always remember Rebecca James, Christopher Holden, Sylvester MacDonald, President Geraldo Calderon, Commissioner James Gordon, Zhang Zhi, and Director Daniel Murray. But I fear, like my father and my brother before me, that simple remembrance won't be enough. We must all pledge to _never forget_. Never forget that these heroes, these icons, these beacons of hope during the darkest of hours were also simple men and women like us, and it was their choices, the sum of their individual actions and sacrifices that led a world on the brink of nuclear holocaust to the height of peace and prosperity. But perhaps the most influential person during that stark hour when the world was in flux is a young woman who history—like so many martyrs before her—has all but forgotten. She wasn't a politician, a celebrity, or a saint, she was a shy and slight college student who dared to stand up for the truth, even though it cost her everything. For her courage she was ostracized by her family, abandoned by a fiancé, persecuted by a xenophobic government, carelessly murdered and subsequently forgotten by the country she sacrificed everything for. Trisha Tanaka was a simple local news reporter. But for one moment, one conversation, one short ride in a Gotham City taxi cab, Trisha Tanaka was the most important person in the entire world.

Trisha Tanaka will always be a hero. She was a woman of integrity. She told the truth. She stood up for what she believed in. But more importantly, at least in my eyes, is that she taught my brother how to be brave.

History doesn't remember Trisha Tanaka. Neither do I. But I—for one—intend to _never forget_.

–_Never Forget_ by Ian Anthony Lawless

* * *

"Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable... Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals."―Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

* * *

**Monday, September 11th, 2028**

**20:30 EST**

**Gotham City FBI District Headquarters**

…and the Threat Level was still red, twenty-seven years later.

At 20:30 hours, Director Dan Murray was calling it quits and going home. Sure, he'd be back before 7 the next morning, but there was only so much strain a marriage could take. Daphne was his college sweet-heart, and had done her tour as a military wife, moving from base to base, and even once—for 18 horrid months—did her duty to her country by waiting everyday for that knock on the door that said her husband and her future were dead.

Daniel Thomas Murray, former Army Ranger, was no fool. Going home didn't change the situation, and in the morning he still had his duty to his country, sure. But that country sure as hell owed Daphne Michelle Stevenson-Murray, too. And lately, that country had been asking a hell of a lot from him. Tonight he wasn't in the forgiving mood.

He'd dealt with explosives, and knew more than any human would ever want to what a bomb looked like when it went off, and the sort of damage it could do to both flesh and steel alike. And despite what the news might say or the official FEMA disaster reports, Fear Night had nothing to do with a _bomb _at all. Only bomb that could heat that much water that fast was an atomic one, and you didn't have to be a genius to know if one of those went off over a population of several million there'd be a lot less buildings standing. Not to mention the radiation, the fall out, the EMP…

Fear Night wasn't a conventional weapon. Sure, the government had now identified the toxin and taken Professor Crane and that Isley woman God knows where, but they still hadn't answered the dispersal question. Sure, it was gaseous, dissolved in the water system then evaporated to wreak havoc in Gotham City.

…but the question the newspapers and newscasters never seemed to pose was _how?_ Dan Murray grew up in Gotham and knew first hand that politics were dirty. But for a US Army Veteran, patriotism died hard, and it took him to his late forties to truly grasp just how deep the pollution went: the federal government was hiding something. And if in his naivety or patriotic pride he'd harbored any latent doubt, Jack McClain had confirmed it for him.

"I couldn't say, Danny-boy," the Gotham City Director of AFTE scowled dourly.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Jack," Murray snapped. "You're AFTE. Federal government's handing you your ass right about now." Jack beckoned him closer.

"Didn't say I _didn't know_," his friend hissed. "Said I _couldn't say_. You understand, Danny-boy?" Someone told Jack to keep his big, sour mouth shut. Or else.

And to scare battle-scarred, IAB-hated, grizzled old Jack McClain into submission, that someone had to be pretty damn high up on the food chain. High enough to put his friend away, or worse. If a man went missing or died of 'natural causes' after asking too many questions, people were bound to get smart-like, see? Nice to know the American government wasn't above threatening family members. With thirteen grandkids, two great-grandsons and a third on the way, Jack McClain had no shortage of those.

And he himself had Daphne at home. _Just toe the line_, _Danny-boy_, he cautioned while leaning back in his posturepedic chair. _Keep your head down. They say jump, you ask how damn high. Just like you're back in Basic…_

Look at him now. A fat-ass bureaucrat in a fat-ass bureaucrat's chair bending over before an even fatter-assed bureaucracy. Damn, wouldn't his old Army buddies be proud. But after 30 odd years of military and civil service, blind obedience didn't come as easily as it once did. Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…all in the valley of Death rode the shit-heads who didn't think to question their orders. Maybe it was because he'd done early conscription the summer before his senior year. Maybe it was because he'd always hated English class. But in his graduating class of over seven hundred, he was the only one who'd felt the true horror behind Tennyson's brash, unfeeling words.

It was romantic, it was heroic, it was patriotic duty...yeah, right. Dulce et decorum est, huh? Six hundred men fucking _died_ in that Crimean charge, and all anyone could think to do was write a poem commemorating their 'bravery'?

_What about their wives?_ He'd asked himself, _Their kids? Their dreams? The future they were fighting for died with them._

Eligible for retirement or not, if this kept up he was getting out. A lifetime ago he'd made a promise to a seventeen year-old boy that he, for one, was not a six hundred shit-head. If those orders ever came, with cannon to right, left, and in front of him, he was clamoring onto his horse, forgetting his flashing sabre bare, and riding like hell out of that Valley the same way he came in.

…_Alive._

* * *

**Wednesday, November 8****th**** 2028**

**Washington DC**

Director Dan Murray and Jack McClain were hardly the only ones asking questions. They were, however, much closer than the average citizen to guessing the answers. While the Sons of Liberty didn't have top secret security clearances, military backgrounds or years of training in explosives, they knew that questions were being suppressed, and answers were being hidden. They also knew by who, and where to find him—it wasn't as if 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was all that hard to find. Screw the so-called Tea Party, the GSU political science majors said scornfully. The incident at Boston Harbor wasn't an organized political reform rally—it was pure and utter _chaos_.

Three days later, Professor Binns, department chair of GSU Integrated Social Studies was left wondering where the better half of his American History from 1492-1860 class had gone. In Washington DC, President-elect Geraldo Calderon woke up to smoke, signal fires and the sound of skin drums wondering where the hell did all those Indians—Native Americans, Indigenous people, or Aboriginals, depending on which political advisor he asked that day—come from.

"Who the hell are these people?" He asked the Naval Steward, serving breakfast. After five days, they were still camped before the White House lawn.

"Concerned citizens," the uniformed man of the Presidential Mess shrugged innocently. "Who else?" Then before the eyes of eight Secret Service agents succeeded in pouring the incoming Commander in Chief a lovely mug of morning _tea._

* * *

**Thursday, November 30****th**** 2028**

**Wayne Industries**

**Research and Development**

"_As you can see behind me, the Washington protests have continued to grow, despite the D.C. Metropolitan Police crack-down on overnight camping. Recent estimates place the number of arrests and subsequent incarcerations related to the event now over three thousand. Viewers can rest assured, however, that the protest—and protestors—remain peaceful in the face of this newest persecution. As the campaign for freedom of information regarding Fear Night reaches its third week, the American people are left to wonder how long the secrecy will continue. I'm Cris Holden, reporting live from the White House,"_ the ruddy young reporter concluded the segment with unaccustomed gravity. _"Back to you."_

Lucius Fox, in addition to his new duties as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, had taken on the extra burden of tuning in for the nightly news. And both, he'd decided the first evening he'd observed fledgling news channel TV 18, carried a weight that was weary to both body and mind. "You see that, Mr. Wayne?" He gestured a weathered bronze hand towards the HD flatscreen hung on the wall of his office.

Over his evening glass of Cabernet, Thomas' son raised an eyebrow. "That Indian princess' ass?" The people wearing them were every race and color, but damn, but weren't those buck-skin costumes authentic.

Fox chuckled. "Very good, Mr. Wayne, very good." Bruce rarely broke cover, and while his ever-astonishing public antics grew tiresome to the aging executive, it was times like these, in private, when the alter persona of Bruce Wayne could be just goddamned hilarious. "But Washington is going to be pressed for answers."

"Calderon won't care," Bruce waved dismissively. "It's not like it's an election year." _And you and I both know what did it_, he didn't have to add.

"Not anymore, no," Fox consented with a rueful smile. "And it used to be back when I was young when that was the only year that mattered. But this is his first year in office, and he's going to be needing all the help and financial support he can get to keep himself—and his party—in that office another eight years."

"You think we should reach out to him." A charitable, large, and completely tax-deductible donation towards the good soon-to-be President's cause loomed in the not so distant future.

Fox's dark eyes twinkled. "It couldn't hurt." And keep him silent, he didn't say. If Calderon got too pressed, it would be only to easy to pull a Katrina and shift the blame squarely onto Wayne Enterprise's shoulders. If WE went under government and public scrutiny, it'd only be a matter of time before the Batman's true identity—and that of his entourage—was discovered. Bruce Wayne might live to see the other side of a federal penitentiary, but Mr. Pennyworth and himself would spend the rest of the lives behind bars.

…then again, in this economy, it would be a recession-proof retirement plan, Fox mused silently. Two days later, CNN captured Bruce Wayne strolling onto the White House lawn to shake hands with the (soon-to-be) first Chicano President of the USA.

In Gotham City, Lucius Fox breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Calderon might be a coward and a bought man, but he wasn't stupid. It might be the same hands that kept him caged, muzzled, and leashed, but even a corrupt politician knew better than to bite them if they fed him.

But that sigh was short-lived. Bruce Wayne had yet to board his return flight when the disturbing tale of the Gotham City Bank and Trust robbery hit the news. The Batman had a new antagonist, less powerful but infinitely more dangerous than a country full of corrupt politicians could ever be. After all, even the worst politician in a democracy had to buy votes.

…This Joker would invent a new form of government: a dictatorial anarchy. And any fool could tell you that you couldn't kill the hydra by cutting off its _head_.

* * *

**Friday, December 15****th**** 2028**

**FBI Field Division Headquarters, Gotham City Branch**

Damnation.

The girl was here again, waiting outside the parking lot. She was short and slight, with dark, heavy hair that perfectly framed her delicate, sculpted features, ample cleavage covered innocently by a manga Batman T-shirt. The downpour had plastered her bangs and clothes to her skeleton, but aside from her quite conspicuous adult breasts she looked as if she could pass for a fourteen year-old child.

There were millions of people in this city obsessed with the Batman, hundreds of thousands gloating over the Wayne Twitter page, and in a country still reeling in loss and anger from Fear Night, this girl—this _woman_, Dan Murray corrected himself—had to go asking the questions that even his department had been forbidden to utter.

"Mr. Murray?" She called, chasing after his car in a plaid skirt and rainboots as she splashed through the knee-deep gutters. "Mr. Murray!"

He sighed, signaled the driver to pull over in the heavy evening traffic. Dan Murray, FBI Director, Gotham City Branch, did it as an act of kindness, but he had no idea that as the girl approached his vehicle that it was one of the worst mistakes of his entire career. Unbeknowst to him, Trisha Tanaka had a friend from GSU down the street, snapping pictures of the Director candidly speaking with what for all appearances looked like an underage prostitute.

"I have questions, Mr. Murray." It was a mistake, to be sure, but the young journalism student had no idea how terrible a mistake it was. Unbeknownst to her, the FBI was also watching, and had been for a while. The public wanted an enemy, a scapegoat, wanted vengeance and justice…no one wanted the truth. The truth was that these terrorists had used their own weapons against them, stolen top secret technology and no one knew how, and certain persons within the United States government wanted it kept that way. And this young woman, this kitten-like college student barely out of her teens, had to be silenced by whatever means necessary.

"Yes, so my secretary and security have told me," Dan replied in a long-suffering tone. "What can I do for you?"

"These questions need answering, Mr. Murray," The girl rushed. "How did so much water vaporize so quickly? Without destroying the pipes? What sort of weapon could do that?"

_I wish I knew,_ the Director thought. Wished he knew what all this secrecy was for, all this silence and silencing. The Average American deserved to know what could possibly be so dangerous the Federal Government was willing to kill Jack McClain's grandkids in order to bury it. But he relayed none of this in his answer: "I'm afraid I can't help you, ma'am."

"But investigations are ongoing?" She pressed.

"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to Washington about that, ma'am. FEMA will release an official report once the investigation has been closed." _Yes, sir. No, sir. May I kiss your ass, sir?_

But rain couldn't deter her, and his stubborn silence couldn't sway her. "But was this or was this not an act of terrorism?" the girl continued, teeth now chattering. "Wasn't it a biologic or chemical weapon? Isn't the FBI or the JTTF investigating?" Damn, but that rain was cold. She was shivering something awful, too, but that didn't stop her from being persistent. Maybe it was for a class, maybe it was just some paranoid conspiracy group, but for whatever reason, this girl had _guts_. As burdensome and tiresome as she was, he felt a begrudging respect for her determination.

…and after all, didn't the American people _deserve to know_ what hit them?

Hell, wasn't he going native. And in today's anti-terror frenzy that made McCarthy's witch hunts look positively endearing combined with his security clearance, going native wasn't exactly a healthy option for someone who wanted to live to see the far side of 50. "You'll get the answers once they're released to the public, ma'am," he answered firmly but politely. "Same as everyone else."

Dan Murray signaled the driver. In the rear-view mirror he watched her curved figure grow fainter in the glooming downpour. Only when she had disappeared entirely into did he allow his head to fall back against the padded seat. _Damnit, Dan_, he berated himself,_ would a simple 'no comment' have been so hard-?_

* * *

**Tuesday, December 19****th**** 2028**

**the Narrows, Gotham City**

Isolated in the upper tier of the Bureau behind a large, wooden desk in a company chair in a private office with goddamned windows and just a few years short of pension Dan Murray had little contact with the Agents out on the streets. Unfortunate, since the Director was not nearly as alone as he believed himself to be.

Jason Sturgis was a new recruit, fresh out of Quantico, still naive and imbued with the vigor and romantic ideals that come with youth and great expectations. He was also intelligent, and that dangerous mixture would prove to be his downfall. After discovering his superiors were not only angered by his initiative into the Fear Night case but _frightened_, Sturgis understood. It wasn't that the Bureau didn't know, or that his immediate superiors didn't care…it was that they'd been told, ordered—threatened, even—not to. That knowledge rankled within his sense of patriotic pride until it became a festering wound.

But the problem with gangrene was it _stunk._ He'd been sure he was being not only watched but followed for a long time now. They'd take him in, under the guise of the Patriot Act and he wouldn't get so much as a phone call. So much for habeus corpus, right? Lock him away in some dark cell, or donate his body to science like those poor stiffs in the forensics education modules…

There was only one way to protect himself. One way to end this for everyone. Or one damn sure way to wind up dead of "natural causes". But hell, this was Gotham City, and people got raped, mugged, and murdered all the time. Here his belonging to the Bureau would merely be a matter of coincidence, nothing more. Damn you America, Sturgis thought. Land of the free and the home of the brave, a land of the people, for the people, and by the people. But what they didn't tell him when he signed up as a naïve, eager young man ready to protect and serve was that the people were goddamn _stupid._

The blonde reporter. Why not? She had decent tits, possibly a decent head on her shoulders, and in his last days as a federal fugitive Jason Sturgis grew desperate for both.

* * *

**Sunday, December 31****st**** 2028**

**Chinatown, Gotham City**

_Fear Night. Big story. Meet me if you're brave enough._

_-JS_

Cameron Shaw had blossomed under Vicky Vale's advice in the past year, letting a little exposed cleavage and extra lipstick open doors that feminism never would. But she didn't need that sleazy tramp's opinion on _this_ matter: anyone with a pair of eyes could tell you her mysterious source had picked out a hole-in-the-wall dump in Chinatown where rooms were frequently rented in yuan and by the hour. On the painstakingly slow taxi ride in Cam had been certain not only was she the only blonde but only _citizen_ for at least 6 square blocks. Not that she was racist, she consoled herself, but _statistically speaking…_

The note didn't specify the location in English, just a scratching of hanzi. _Purse, lady, purse_, the street vendors muttered furtively. _Purse. Purse_. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the noxious fumes from street-cluttering push carts, and avoided reaching hands and the smoke of sparklers. A twisted dragon danced down the street to the cacophony of drugs and gongs, delaying her progress by nearly an hour. In the end she had to buy a bowl of noodles from a dumpy, diminutive woman with arid, wrinkled face from age and constant cooking for a suspicious look from already suspicious eyes and a rough gesture down the street.

She almost turned back. Almost. But courage, curiosity, or something much, much darker and much, much worse compelled her forward.

The lobby was poorly lit. Elegant yet cliché bamboo lined the walls, with a smattering of faded silk embroidered tapestries and paper fans to give that drab, pan-asian ethnic feel that American johns had come to expect. Except for the girls, it looked like any trashy take-out restaurant in Gotham.

They were well trained, she thought. Not a one of the ten girls—possibly women, given racial differences, Cam knew, but most likely _girls_ nonetheless—paid her the slightest surprise. Two actually smiled beguilingly over their fans.

She almost turned back. Almost.

"You're new here, little Lotus flower," A man leered from the far corner, dandling two girls on his lap. "You're not my usual type, but slip into something more…_ethnic_ and I'll enter your Forbidden City."

She almost turned back. Almost. "Fuck your Chink whores and leave me alone," Cam bristled. She wasn't racist. Just frightened.

To her surprise, he only laughed, shoving the girls away abruptly. "You're ballsy, I'll give you that." He eyed her approvingly, then held out his hand. "Jason Sturgis. You're Cameron Shaw. What do you say we go upstairs?" Warily, she followed.

"Won't this look suspicious?" Cam asked, eying what little she could of the crowded city streets below. The tiny window, decorated with paper lanterns and streamers as it was, was barred, she realized with disgust. How could city planners and cops not _notice_?

"What, some lesbian chasing Asian tail on New Years?" Sturgis snorted. "They can't blackmail you with it unless you want to go into politics, sweetheart. Besides, it's Gotham City. Tonight, there won't be a spare cop in fifty miles."

"Two Caucasians. Meeting here," she snapped. "If you're really who you claim to be, they've probably got spies everywhere."

"Not here," he continued with an air of bored authority. "Illegals, gang activity, language and cultural barriers…the CIA and FBI will pay a shitload to get guys who speak Arabic to infiltrate Terror Cells, but there are two organizations the US has never managed to penetrate."

"Which are-?"

"PRC and the Vatican. Even here the Chinese are just too suspicious," he reassured her. "Trust me, right now this hotel might be the safest spot in Gotham."

A series of piteous shrieks echoed from the vent, accompanied by the _thwack!_ of blunt force to human skin.

Cam shuddered. Girls. They were only girls. Illegals. Foreigners. It shouldn't make a difference…but it did. "Safe for you, perhaps. I'm not so sure."

"You're a local celebrity. You're nearly famous. You're also blonde, and would stick out like a sore thumb in a joint like this," he eyed her lazily up and down. "You've got nothing to fear from these pimps, but this were in the Russian Quarter it'd be another story."

"I've heard about that stuff overseas, but here in _Gotham_?" She pressed.

"It's cheaper than flying the girls in as illegals," Sturgis shrugged. "Admittedly it's rare, but we're fairly certain it happens. Home-grown sex trade, support your local economy. Ain't the world a warmer place?"

Cam shivered. Her mother had lectured her before spring break to Paris or the Dominican, and everyone in Gotham knew what happened to poor Johnnie Doe…and his mother. She'd tried to watch the GCPD training vid, just like Vicky Vale had, but hadn't been able to stomach seeing Martha Wayne's corpse still so life-like, the only defect a small hole above her left breast and the even more unnatural pallor of her perfect, porcelain skin.

She couldn't turn back now. She almost had. Almost. "So, Mr. Sturgis, what do you have?"

"Information. Classified, and self-researched," her source said. "And call me Jason."

She paced warily. "Is it dangerous?"

"No, I just love the smell of eggroll," Sturgis sneered. "Why do you think I met you here?"

"I have no idea," Cam lied. But she knew. Knew the moment she'd bought that horribly greasy chow mein. The look in that woman's eyes…

They knew. All the people knew what this place was. Even her. She had almost turned back. Almost.

"So do you want it or not?" He asked, reclining back on the bed.

"First tell me why you're doing this."

"People deserve to know," Sturgis shrugged. "And right now people knowing is the only life insurance I've got."

"They're after you?"

"You're looking at a dead man walking, sweetheart," he said with bravado.

"I'm a junior level reporter for an independent news company—" she began.

"That's why I chose you. No way the Bureau has any dirt on you. And no mainstream news station's got the balls to run with this," he assured her. "Holden does."

The mention of Chris' name made a knot in her bowels. "What I'm saying is I'm not authorized to give you compensation, if that's what you're looking for."

"I am," Sturgis said flatly. "But it ain't the kind you need to go clearing with your boss."

Her _fiancé_. "How dare you!"

"Don't play naïve, Shaw," he reprimanded sharply. "You knew the minute you walked in that door, hell, drove into this neighborhood what you'd gotten into. And funny thing is you had blocks to turn back." Jason Sturgis reminded her. "But you _didn't._"

…she had almost turned back. Almost. "So what do you say, home girl?" He caressed her hand. "Ain't nothing in life for free."

She jerked away. "This is your chance to be a patriot."

"A man's got needs," he shrugged. "I'll go to prison or worse for what I tell you, least you could do is give me a little 'going away' present. All in the name of the American people, of course."

She had hours to think about it. Blocks to turn back. And she almost had. _Almost. _

_Damn you, Vicky Vale_, was her only thought as she slid her engagement ring off her finger. "Lock the door."

"What?"

"I said _lock the door_," Cameron Shaw-soon-to-be-Holden snapped. "If we're going to do this, at least have the decency to make sure we're not interrupted." She'd lost her virginity back in high school with all the others, and hadn't thought a thing about it. But this was different, this was wrong. She lost her innocence in a backstreet, Chinatown brothel for sixty minutes of primetime coverage.

Later, Chris took her out to celebrate. The grand opening of a posh new French restaurant downtown, _le Canard Bleu_. He wined her and dined her with finesse, but when the moment came, she had a headache.

* * *

**Tuesday, January 2****nd**** 2029**

**Marathon Apartments #1328, Liam Holden Lane**

Daphne Murray had no doubts to her husband's fidelity. None. They shared an email account, a bank account, had joint credit, filed joint taxes and to Dan's chagrin they spent just as much as he made besides the little sums credited to their retirement fund (which usually translated into him fishing somewhere in Alaska with Jack McClain). They might not be frugal, but they budgeted, and budgeted so asininely that Daphne could count Dan's dollars down to the dime.

The only secrets he had from her were the ones his security clearance permitted. They shared a bed, a toothbrush, a _life_. He'd cried more than she had when the fertility clinics said no, it just wasn't possible. Suggested adoption, sperm donors, anything for her to be happy, and a husband willing to play father to another man's child didn't go cheating. Not her man. Not Dan.

So it wasn't snooping when Daphne Michelle Stevenson-Murray opened that manila envelope addressed to her husband. Others might consider it a federal crime, but Dan and her had always done this chore together. After thirty years—hell, make that their first cramped, 500 square foot one bedroom apartment—they'd learned there was no such thing as privacy. The claustrophobia for a suburban girl had been tough during the move to downtown Gotham, but the confines of those four, tiny walls had done wonders for their intimacy.

The photos had been addressed to Dan. Dan alone. This wasn't for her eyes to see. Nothing compromising, just circumstantial. Just her husband approaching a young Asian girl. Just enough leverage in the hands of the wrong people to make her husband resign—or worse, buy him off. He'd try to hide it from her. It's what men did. What Dan did, try to protect her. But Daphne was so tired of being protected, so tired of watching her man go off to fight for a cause and a country that had long since died. She could have glued the envelope back together, let him take care of it himself. Pretend she'd never seen…or she could throw it away. Throw all of them away, not let these blackmailers get to him, but that would only endanger the man she loved.

But it was too late. Daphne Murray, though she'd never gone to college, had formal weapons training or military service, had a backbone worthy of a marine. She was small, mousy, and seemingly shy, but God help, God help the man—or especially the _woman_—who tried to hurt her man or her kids (two golden retrievers and a Himalayan longhair).

She made the call, and by the time Dan got home that evening the federal crime lab was already processing the photos. And unbeknownst to her, U.S. Customs and Immigration Enforcement were already at the girl's residence on an ERO. Daphne was only trying to protect her husband. Had she known then the sum of her actions would cost the Tanaka family everything…

…_she'd have done the same_, she told herself a year and a half later. _Damnit, Dan, I would have done the same…_

* * *

**AN: That's all for now!** **Trisha, Lawless, Batman, and the Joker will all return soon!**


	40. Odysseus Returns (part II)

**Odysseus Returns (part II)**

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

**AN: I don't own Manuel "Mani" Delgado. He's just visiting from Beowulfwulf's A Psychic Amongst Gotham Psychos. That story and account are now gone, but if you happen to find it or her give her my warmest regards and sincerest thanks (and reviews!). Aurelie, this chapter is for you. Know are both missed and loved.**

**WARNING: This chapterlet is rated M for graphic content, violence against women, and extremely offensive language. All viewpoints of characters are THEIR OWN, and do not represent the author's beliefs. Why Clive Vanderholt? Because not all bad guys are Comic Book Villains that we love to hate. Some are real people, our friends, families, neighbors and ourselves, and their crimes are so cringeworthy they're unpublishable as entertainment.**

* * *

******January 2029**

**Marathon Apartments 1328, Liam Holden Ln.**

It wasn't the first time they'd fought. Not even the first time they'd fought about this. But something was off. Wrong. He gave in too quickly, didn't raise his voice. Not even to argue with Jack McClain about some bullshit psychological leave. _He's given up_, Daphne Michelle Stevenson-Murray realized with growing dread. Her Dan had given up.

Dan who'd joined the Rangers just days after 9/11 all those years ago. Dan who, even at seventeen, couldn't stand by and do just _nothing_. Dan who, despite the risks, the consequences, the long hours apart, had stood firm through the darkest of Gotham's days as FBI Field Director. And now her Dan was falling apart, and no amount of yelling, crying, frustrated tears or pleas of talk to me, please just talk to me! could hope to break his shell.

A shell not of anger, but hopelessness. A shell of guilt.

Her fault. "It was the right call, Dan. That girl was blackmailing you!"

"That girl has a name, Daph, and it's Trisha Tanaka." Yes. But right now Daphne Murray didn't give a fuck. It was Dan she was worried about, Dan she cared about, Dan she fretted over and if this Trisha Tanaka had any sense of dignity she wouldn't've gotten caught up with this mess in the first place. Would have left her husband alone.

"She was blackmailing you, Dan. Plain and simple," her voice was firm as she stroked Siam's pearly fur, sharp nails now kneading her knees in purring contentment. "I won't let that happen. I won't."

"She did it because she believes in something," her man's voice was hollow as he stared at his hands. "So did Sturgis. So did I, when I was their age."

Dan hadn't eaten in days. Had barely slept. When she pressed herself against him in bed he'd wept or pushed her away. Tonight would be no different.

* * *

**Tanaka Household**

Anonymity. That's what allowed people to kill other people. Not because they wouldn't get caught, no; it was because to the perpetrator, the victims were no longer people. Drive by shootings. Gang violence. Muggings. Even now in the 21st century, there was so much mindless hate.

Mindless. Trisha Tanka had read the science, read articles propounding neurophysiology dictating species psychology, revealing the maximum number of individuals a person could perceive as humans: one hundred and fifty. In America's largest metropolis of millions, no wonder there was so much violence. Dunbar said there was only so much capacity for empathy. As a species our goodwill and philanthropy could only stretch so far, and as individuals we subconsciously perceived it. That's why urban fear, depression and anxiety were mounting on a global scale, she'd learned as a GSU freshman in Professor Crane's class.

…and like Avram Bramowitz, the lesson was one she'd remember. Bramowitz died in that GCU classroom, and Jonathan Crane had been fired.

But despite those studies, despite the evidences all around her, the Batman still defied that logic. And she loved him for it. She'd grown up in Gotham. Grown up in the metropolis boasting the highest level of violent crime in North America. The Domestic Violence, the spousal murders, those were horrible, yes; but _personal._ A brief, bloody reminder of how selfish and stupid we really were. What Trisha Tanaka couldn't comprehend were the hate crimes. The "I hate not you but something like you" that terrorized the streets. The blind, ignorant stupidity that drove Germans to massacre Jews only ninety-odd years ago, what led Americans to attack Muslims of differing sects and ethnicities while the Twin Towers were still burning. The rage-fueled prejudice that led whites—and even her parents—to hate blacks for the simple color of their skin.

Trisha Tanaka was young. Eager. Earnest. But she was also naïve, and even the bravery of standing up to Walter Graves or dating Micheal behind her parents' backs and against their permission couldn't have prepared her for this. Falconi's attack on her father's car last year had been frightening, yes; but when the front door burst open during dinner with flashbangs and the IEA entered carrying riot shields, gas, and _guns_ she thought she would die. Like that panicked moment in Professor Crane's classroom her freshman year at GCU when the gunshots began to fire, but this was real. No madman's trick. No Abram Bramowitz play-acting with a toy gun and mask. These men, these guns, they were deadly, and there were no plainclothes cops to keep her safe. This time the terror—like her fear—was real.

She felt her heart throbbing in her throat as she heard her grandparents scream, limbs stiff, aching, forced to lay on the floor for nearly two hours with her hands above her head while armed men with guns ransacked her parents' home in the name of national security. They weren't gentle, either, not when dumping open her dresser so her hidden lingerie and a box of condoms spilt where her father and mother could see; not when ripping open the paneling of the china cabinet and the _kyöyaki _her grandmother's family had had for centuries went shattering to the floor; not even when they cinched the cuffs on her grandfather's wrists so tight they bled as her grandmother screamed he was on warfarin, to be careful—

But her _sobo _had been terrified, had shouted out in Japanese. Trisha watched in horror as a foot slammed her grandmother's face so hard her nose burst and her mottled teeth fell out. They were doing this to silence her, she alone knew. Terrify her. Shame her. There were illegal immigrants in their new country, the Tanaka family understood, but the violent arrest of two senior, upstanding community members with resident visas on suspicion of falsified documents and/or terrorist sympathies from an anonymous tip line had been too much for even Isao Tanaka to tolerate.

Akio Tanaka had been wearing the wrong uniform on August 15th, 1945, yes. But he was now 99 years old, and suffering from end stage Alzheimers. He belonged in a rest home, Trisha had thought for some time now, but her father's stoic values insisted he be cared for here.

Now their own home lay in shambles. Hana was sobbing, her husband pale and blank, with little Gracie wailing shrilly. Her grandmother lay trembling in her mother's arms, and acrid smoke still filled the air. They'd been attacked. Attacked by the government, the country she loved. By that FBI director. Dan Murray. He'd done this to them.

…No. _She'd_ done this to them. Trisha Tanaka had wanted the truth…and the truth was awful and unbearable beyond belief. These people, these men, they knew her grandfather wasn't a threat. But they would stop at nothing—not physical intimidation, not torture, not killing—to silence her.

And silence her they had. Her throat was raw from fumes and tears, her tongue dry and stuck. Her jaws were quivering and she was shivering on the floor, curled up with her knees to her chest. She sobbed, wiped phlegm and tears over and over against her hands, and for several long minutes she swore she'd never speak again.

Yet those white authorities weren't nearly as terrifying as what happened next. "You have done this to us!" Her father shouted, "you!" And at 22, for the first time in her life her father laid a hand on her that had not been in doting affection. Trisha screamed, scrabbled fingernails against the backs of his hands as he dragged her by her long hair through the house.

"Papa, no!" Hana-now-Hannah cried. Little Gracie was shrieking.

"Silence!" His voice brought them all to a halt. Then he shook her. _Hard._ "I asked you to take back that article! The one that endangered our family, and you lied to me! You lied to your mother! You lied to us all!" Her father was never a tall man, but even in his sixties he was still strong. It took only one arm for him to fling her across the room.

There was a crack! as her head hit the wall, the dizzying pain so bad she couldn't even feel her broken wrist. She lay there like a ragdoll, on a pile of lacy bras, panties and unopened condoms, blinking stupidly up through her tears.

"_When I return you will be gone!_" He demanded. "_Gone!_"

Trisha heard the door slam behind him, and knew in her heart it would never open for her again. When she finally mustered the strength and courage to stand, neither her mother nor sister would dare help her pack.

* * *

**The Narrows**

There was a problem with this city.

A problem with this whole fucking country. Too many damn immigrants, that's what. All those spics and their anchor babies overpopulating the gutters, sucking up resources, like his grandad's social security. Damn niggers and their gangs and crime. All these affirmative action gooks taking jobs and college from hard working American citizens without paying taxes.

Clive Vanderholt was sick of this government's mess. Sick of Joe Citizen voting in presidents who were niggers and spics—letting those halfbreeds run this country! No wonder the US of A was such a fucking mess. Geraldo Calderon, his Commander in Chief? Jefe Calderon probably wiped his ass with the fucking _flag_. And you could guarantee he wouldn't do nothing about border security. Hell, putting him the White House was practically inviting the rest of the spics to come and invade.

But Clive had hope. The Batman. The Batman had come. People liked the Batman. Respected the Batman. People imitated the fucking Batman—just last week they'd finally caught that Professor Crane, that scrawny scarecrow. Probably stuck him back in Arkham, this time as a patient. It wasn't where he belonged. Damned terrorist belonged in the electric chair. Or hang 'em, as granddad always said.

But the point still stood: people couldn't get enough of the fucking Batman. He wasn't a politician, and attorney or a cop. He was a vigilante…and people loved him for it.

Clive Vanderholt was 26. Unemployed. He'd tried joining the Army, doing his patriotic duty, yeah; but got his ass section 9'd out of basic by some spic Sergeant who didn't give a shit about his country but just wanted citizenship. Down on his luck, people might say. Economic Depression, the papers kept repeating. Fear Night Fall Out, the newscasters were calling it, businesses and infrastructure in the Narrows had taken a fatal blow. Houses foreclosing. Unemployment and homelessness and gang violence on the rise. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He was young. Hardworking. He was a goddamned American citizen and he couldn't find a job or take care of his mama because some do-gooder liberal democrats were too busy handin' out free relief to immigrants and abortions and WIC money to all the sluts. That was his country's money. The country his granddad had fought in Korea and 'Vam for. And Granddad had the Gook teeth, VA pension and the Purple Heart to prove it. He was born and bred an American, damnit! And he wasn't going to let any communists in congress take that away.

Sure, Clive was a WASP. But he didn't put up with any of that Neo-Nazi bullshit. Americans died in that war. Wasn't funny, man. No Aryan Brotherhood for him. Didn't like the KKK, either. Bastards had a chance to get rid of the niggers once and for all after the Civil War and Emancipation, right? Bastards let them down. Let them all down.

No. Clive didn't hold with any organizations. Organizations, governments, they compromised. Let you down. Clive believed in Batman. In the individual. And goddamnit _this_ individual was going to prove them all wrong.

People were going to see. People were going to pay. Because Clive Vanderholt had an idea. The Batman had inspired him. What thousands of cops and congressmen couldn't do, one man—the right man, the man with the big enough balls—could. So him and some buddies took to the streets in ski masks with nail-studded bats and started being _Batmen_. Being part of the fucking solution. Fighting back for Fear Night (some of his friends still thought it was the Arabs that did it. Let some bastards leaving a late night Mosque have it and have it good. And Clive joined it, sure. Those rag-heads still had to pay for 9/11, but Fear Night? And the Arkham Break? Nah. Grandad said it was the _Jews_. Fucking kikes. Things starting to heat up in Palestine, making Israel look bad. Fucking kikes figured it was time to stir things up a bit again. Remind the US of A who the good guys were. Let the liberal media point a big, fat finger at some dumb Arab saps while Calderon and his spic cronies sweat it out a bit. And Grandad was right. Any real terrorist would've gone for NYC. DC. LA or something. Somewhere people gave a damn. But Gotham? Gotham City? No one cared shit about Gotham City. About _his _city. And that's why those kikes had got away with it.). Lot of good people lost homes. Lives. American people. And the banks didn't care. The government didn't care. So he and Dave and Ted had beat the shit out of a banker and his family. Broke his long kike nose. Busted in his tiny kike balls.

He and the Batmen—and the Batman—had done more for this city than that Nigger Commissioner Loeb and that Mayor fucking Spic Garcia ever had. Niggers? Spics? Gooks? Jews? They all had to pay. They all had to go. America for Americans. The rest could get out. Go to hell for all Clive cared.

…Some did.

Last few weeks it'd been getting easier. Targets coming out of the woodwork just waiting to get hammered. More homeless. More fucking immigrants. Thought there was fucking safety in numbers. Even with Fear Night the Narrows was safer than it'd ever been, thanks to the Batman. Gambol's thugs still prowled, thought they were invincible with their AK 47's. Last week he'd bashed one's face in with one. A fucking riot. But those trash-talking niggers were into crack. Didn't care shit who was where or when so long as he wasn't selling. And the Chechen's mixed breed eurotrash pandered whores and AIDS and piss-tasting vodka to who'd ever buy it.

But Falconi's men?

The Red Falcon, the Red Scourge, the Roman who'd haunted his childhood was gone. Gone were his crucifixions and floggings. Gone too were his late-night military curfews, checkpoints and tolls. People didn't have to worry about paying the Roman tax no more to keep themselves safe. Now the Narrows was a suffocating mess. And this new boss Meroni was as ball-less as he was greasy. Fucking Guidos were too afraid of the Batman, that's what.

Fucking Guidos were too afraid of his Batmen, that's what. Clive sent a scowl across the street that sent Meroni's little minions scampering.

_Fucking Guidos go home,_ he grinned. _Back to little Italy where you belong. _

"Psst, Clive!" It was Dave. Playing lookout. Not that they needed it. No cops in the Narrows. And Gambol and the Chechen had learned to leave them alone.

"Yeah, man?"

"Got one. Three o'clock."

He hefted the bat. Ted's was _Truth._ Dave's was _Justice_. And his? Granddad had taught him to hit with her a long time ago. Clive called her _The American way_. She was a sleek, oiled Louisville Slugger, good ol' American craftsmanship, with a solid pound of steel piercing her wooden flesh for good measure.

"What are we waiting for?"

But Dave didn't seem happy about this one. "Don't like it, man."

"Don't like it? You growing pussy on me? You a nigger-loving democrat?"

"Fuck it, man," he spat a wad of tobacco, jerking Justice around the alley corner. "It's a pussy. _She's _a pussy. The Chink. Ain't right."

"Since when did that matter?" Ted asked. He tossed a Marlboro. Stomped it. "Pussy just makes it more fun."

"Ain't right, man," Dave whined. "An' no raping. We don't do no raping, Clive. That's nigger-shit."

"Dave-here's got his panties on too tight," Ted leered. "No wonder his balls ain't dropped yet. Or you just got a hard on for Chink-chicks?"

Clive silenced them. Peered around the alley-corner. And there she was, just sitting there, plain as daylight. New to the Narrows, that much was sure. You didn't just sit out in the open where anyone could see you. Even armed. Even his Batmen kept to the shadows. Just in case.

"Dave's right. Looks as somebody beat us to it," he frowned.

"So?" Ted demanded, tapping Truth impatiently. "Delivery. Not takeout. I'm still hungry."

"I think she's hurt," Dave voiced. "Should we like, I dunno, call her an ambulance or something?"

An ambulance? Waste some hard-working American's tax dollars for this stupid slut? She wasn't a woman. Not really. She wasn't white, she wasn't American. She didn't belong. She deserved as good as she got. And worse.

…and tonight, the Batmen were going to make her pay.

* * *

One step closer, sweetheart.

Did you get my love letter? Poetry in human flesh. I left it for you, but the greedy cops got there first, put up tape and lights and tracked their stink all over it. But don't worry, my sweet, I'll paint you a new one. A better one. Bigger. With flames and smoke against the stark night sky. I'll draw you from your secrets and your solitude. I killed again for you tonight. Did you know? You must know. Even now you wonder. I know. That petty, burning desire of yours to AVENGE even those lives not worth taking.

I went to their meeting. Infiltrated. Sat at their table. The last supper of the miserable and the decrepit. And oh how they raged, raged against the dying of the light! It seemed a foreboding darkness had descended of which there was no end. On the horizon a small hope like flame was kindled…so I laughed and blew it out. Then I put a pencil through their eyes for their audacity to hope.

Why must you fret so? It was only a pawn. Expendable. Meaningless. Not a King or Knight or Bishop like you or I. Or Gordon…

(Do you know the most powerful piece on the chessboard, my love? The Queen. Her steps can take her where other pieces dare not trod. But beware! She is so alone. _So._ _Very. Vulnerable_. It was your move, not mine. You chose her. You placed her in harm's way for the good of the pawns and your White Knight while King Gordon looked the other way. And here's the thing about Lancelot: Untrustworthy Bastard. Can't keep his hands to himself. Leave 'em alone together five minutes and already they're fucking each other. Your White Knight has two faces, and your virgin Queen is the Whore of Babylon. And YOU WILL SEE IT BEFORE THE END. And you will laugh.

…You will laugh with me.)

I have seen your path. Know where it leads. Destruction. Damnation. They will damn you, my love. Damn you thanklessly and forever. I know it. I know. So I would stop you, sweetheart, before they get the chance to cage you, bind you, strip you until nothing left but meat and bones. They will take your face—did you hear me? _They will take it from you and put a man's face there instead. _They would wish you mortal, these humans, these peons, these peasants, the unworthy and unloved.

They will try to make you like them.

They will try to _break_ you like them.

But they can't have you. You are mine. Mine alone.

I will find you. I will show you. I will save you.

…it will feel like dying, Bats. It did for me. But on the other side life undying! Immortal! Invincible! Angels and demons, prophets and martyrs, gods enshrined even Olympus trembles to behold. You and I, we're destined to do this. We've done it. Will do it. Have been doing it forever. Gabriel and Lucifer. Raven and Coyote. Zeus and Hades. Thor and Loki…

They wanted you dead, my love. These mortals. They wanted to bind you like Samson and take away your strength. Fools, fools, I played them for fools. I will catch you, I will find you, and together you and I will settle this like—

Ah. And everything had been going…_So. Well. _It wasn't often something stopped him in his tracks, let alone soliloquy. Very seldom did even Human Nature have anything with which to surprise him. His eyes were old eyes. Cold eyes. There were few things left so interesting, or so obscene.

…there were fewer still that could not be solved with the use of a simple switchblade. Tonight would prove no exception.

* * *

Damn Chink knew how to fight.

But your basic karate-shit only took you so far against three men with bats. Melee weapons, blunt force…those sort of things didn't flinch from flying fists or feet. And Dave'd been right: the Batmen weren't the first tonight to give her a hard lesson. But Clive wasn't in a forgiving mood, however limp-dick Dave had gone. He let her think she had a chance, then chocked in the back of her head so hard American Way got stuck. When he wrenched her away, a piece of meaty flesh and long, messy hair came with her. There was a shriek like a banshee, girl was down, clutching her bare skull with a cry like a rabbit. He drew to strike again, one quick cut through the temples and her brains would come squishing through her ears. But it was too early in the game for that. Too many head shots too soon took all the fun out of it, Clive had learned. You wanted them to know their place. You waited until they were maimed and crippled and _begging,_ and then if you were feeling nice you might stop the suffering. After all, even a rabid dog deserves a quick, clean death.

Ted took a series of swings. Hard. Swift. Wet. Arms snapped like twigs and squelched. She was gasping now, hands fallen to her sides. Truth came down. Hit her right in the breast. It made a sound like a dropped melon. How she arched! Like a whore on her back.

"Told you," Ted grunted. "Pussy makes it more fun."

"I think she liked that, Ted," Clive spat. "Hit her again."

"Please—" she whined.

Dave looked to be sick. "She's beggin', guys. She's beggin'. We don't keep hittin' once they're beggin'. Come on, man. Clive, this is—"

He wanted to see her arch again. Make that sound. He could jack to that for days.

"Clive, man—"

But Dave was right. She was begging. Whimpering. Asking them to finish it. He nodded, and Ted let out a whoop.

"Any last words, Chink?" he asked, twirling Truth.

"Jap," she managed to say between her broken teeth.

Ted leaned in closer. "What was that, bitch?"

"Jap," she choked again. "The correct derogatory term for a person of Japanese heritage is _Jap_."

"That's funny," Ted jeered. "You sure scream like a Chink to me."

She spat blood, then. Right into his eyes.

Ted slapped her. Bare-handed. Dave was whimpering, so he put a fist into his gut. But the fight had gone out of her with that last blow. She coughed a little, then lay still. He nodded again. Little Chink had it coming. Little Jap bitch. Ted wiped blood from his eyes with a curse, pounded Truth in the gravel for emphasis, Dave was sick in the alley behind him—

A shadow fell across the scene. The Batman—?

"And wh_aaaat_ do we have hmmm, _here?_"

But no. Just some homeless creep. Some freak in a suit and facepaint. He looked to be white, though. Clive brandished his bat, just to give him a taste. "Get out of here, man. You ain't need to see this."

"Who, uh, who are you?"

"Nobody," Clive told him sternly. Damn psychos. Some sick Schitzo off his meds. But Grandad's friends were Vets, lots of 'em homeless. They might be a drain on the system but they'd done their goddamned duty. You had to respect that, man. You had to.

"_Nooo-body_?" The shadowed figure ventured closer in sing-song step. "I'm Nobody. Are you Nobody too?"

"The fuck is that," Dave asked shakily, bent over his belly. "Dr. Seuss?"

"It's Dickenson!" The Clown said. "Get it?"

"Get goin', geezer." Ted snarled. Ted had a mouth. No respect. Not for women, not for vets…his damn mouth was gonna get him in trouble some day.

"Sorry, sorry, just thought I'd uh, try some lowbrow humor. DICK-enson? Get it? Aw, tough crowd, tough crowd. Can't catch a break. What a night!"

"We're the Batmen," Clive explained. "Now get on about your business, and we'll be about ours."

"Batmen? _BAT_-men. _Bat. Men,_" the Clown emphasized, eyes narrowing. "So is that just…literally? Or _figuratively?_"

Ted straightened. "You insulting us?"

"Who? Me? No!" He waggled a finger, waggled his tongue, all while waddling closer. "I was uh, just uh, asking. Curious."

"We're the Batmen. One guy can't police the whole city. So we're helping," Clive stated proudly. "Best we can."

"Oh? Silly me. And I here thought you were all just uh, ordinary thugs."

"Batman's making this city a better place. So are we." He explained.

"Are you?" Those yellow eyes were pools of doubt. "Are you…_really?_"

"We're getting rid of the spics and niggers and chinks-"

"And Japs!" Ted added, nodding furiously.

"Fas. Ci. Na. Ting." The stranger smacked his lips. "And do you uh, do you think theee uh, _the Batman_ skulks around beating…uh, vulnerable, defenseless _women?_"

…That made them all uncomfortable. "The fuck is it to you?" Clive bristled. Told you, man, Dave was whimpering. I told you we shoulda left her alone, shoulda called her an ambulance…

"You want my advice? One professional to another? Fire your PR guy," the Clown continued. "Because from where uh, from where I'm standing, you all just look like a bunch of fatass whitetrash unemployed uh, _losers._ And rapists."

That did it. "You fucking stupid, man?" Clive snarled. "We outnumber you!"

The Clown wasn't impressed. "Oh? Do you? Do you…_really_?"

"Three to one!"

"Three? Let me do the uh, the math," he counted as he came. "How many misguided, meddling, malevolent morons does it take to change a lightbulb? Is it the uh, the same it takes to chase down a defenseless unarmed woman in a dark alleyway? Because uh, if it is, I can hire _one Mexican_ to do the same. _Without paying taxes. Or social security_. So I don't think immigration is the problem here." He stepped finally into the light. "_You are._"

He was hideous. Deformed. Scarred. Disgusting. The smell…the smell made Clive take a step back. Smelt like grandad's friends, alright. The ones who didn't brush, didn't wash, hadn't changed their clothes in years and had pissed and shat themselves. Ted would've charged, but he held out a hand. No goddamned homeless man in his right mind would mess with the Batmen. This guy, this guy was short some brain cells, he was certain.

"What sort of sick clown are you, man? You drunk? You high?"

Ted wouldn't have it. He bashed Truth against his open palm with menace. "Clowns are supposed to be funny."

"I uh, I can juggle," the psycho offered. "I also do card tricks. But my uh, trademark act is…_throwing knives_."

But Clive had had enough. Homeless Vet or not this guy was begging for trouble. The bat beat against his open palm so Dave and Ted would know. This was the creep's last warning. "Ted's right. So you'd better scram, or do something funny, or my Lady here'll knock your fucking head off."

"That piece of shit?" The Clown tittered. "You'd, uh, you'd have to _hit me_ first."

That did it. "GET HIM!" Clive roared. Truth. Justice. The American Way. Bats drawn, they circled. Then the Batmen advanced.

A whirring whine. Something hit him. Hard. Right in the chest. His arms felt chilled and his knees brushed gravel. The world seemed to spin above and around him. _So cold_, Clive Vanderholt thought. _How fucked up is that…_

* * *

Someone was sobbing.

And someone was shushing. Gloved hands on her face, fingers on her lips. "Shh, shh, shh…" the voice kept telling her. "Shh, shh, shh…_shaddup!_" An argyle handkerchief. Monogrammed. Antique. And slick with snot. Then Trisha realized she was the one who was crying, so she stopped.

But that didn't make the pain go away. She gasped and cried out.

"No, no, nononono. Shh!" Someone warned her sternly. "Do you uh, do you want thee uh, _the Batman_ to hear us?"

The Batman? That brought her out of the shock, if only for several seconds. "Wh-where—" she tried to ask.

"There now. That's better," the voice soothed. "No more crying, dollface. You and I, we've got…work to do."

"What, what happened?" She asked her rescuer, dazed. Three men—no, three bodies—lay scattered across the alleyway.

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. The rest is ancient history."

"I-I, Idon't understand."

"Shock. It's a killer," her savior quipped. "You're alive, aren't you? Humpty Dumpty and his friends…well…they had a grrreat, um, _fall._ And all the king's horses and all the king's men will be here and we've gotta be gone by then. You and me both, doll-face. Middle-class dame like you in the Narrows at night? You're on the run from the law. I've got instincts. Killer ones! And I've got a _baaaad_ feeling they're going to pin this one on you. Am I right?"

Those men. Her home. ICE. Director Dan Murray. He was right—they'd use this to put her away. For a long, long time. "How…how did you know?"

"Just look at me, dollface. I'm a great judge of character." He didn't look like much, looked like a hobo in a rental clown suit. But there was nothing childish about that facepaint. His sloppy, smudged make-up made him look anything but idyll or innocent. In the shadows, he was almost sinister.

He tried to pull her up, put her on her feet, coaxing, encouraging, nice and easy, steady, steady, that's the trick!, and that's when she saw it. Wires. Bricks. Tape. Vest. All hidden under his garish tailcoat. Her nightmare grew worse by the second. "That's…that's a bomb!" she squeaked, shrinking away. "_You're wearing a bomb!"_

"Aaaand a three piece suit! Real leather shoes! Custom made! Brand new! And a bowtie! No one wears bowties these days. It's a lost art. People strap themselves with explosives everyday. Sooo commonplace, so boring. I wear a matching vintage clown suit and bowtie combination past Labor Day yet no one seems to mention it." He sighed theatrically. "Art is dead."

She tried to run, pull away, twisted her wrists…and a flap of skin fell open across her arm. She screamed.

A large gloved hand went into her mouth, gagging her. "SHH!" His eyes found hers, held her gaze sternly. Her arms, her hands…they were ruined. She couldn't fight him off, and she went slack in resignation. He could rape her. He could kill her. Anything but this blinding _pain!_

…but he didn't. The Clown put a finger to his lips, one eyebrow raised. She nodded, and he let go.

"What's wrong, dollface? Did daddy warn you about trusting strangers?"

"You're a terrorist!" She whimpered.

"Wh_aaat_? In _this_ get-up?" He giggled maniacally. "I'd be spotted in a uh, a heartbeat! It's all, uh, part of the act! TADA!" He spun a cartwheel, bowing low.

It still looked like a bomb. And he still sounded half-mad. But his antics had calmed her. "You're, you're a comedian-?"

"Oh, sooo close. But no," he eyed her strangely. "No. Not a jester, either."

Even with Yuki in Tokyo she'd had more respect for her personal space than this. His breath was awful, but he'd saved her. She tried not to cringe. "Then what are you?"

"Little ol' me? Why, I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?"

She recognized it. From far off, high school American Poetry. Back when she had a home and a family, teachers and friends who loved her…"That's Emily Dickenson."

"Shit poet!" he cackled happily. "Lived her whole life inside one little room. Only wore white. They think something _traaah-jick_ happened to her. And she just…went away! Unlike you. No. Not like _you _at all." His eyes had grown hungry, hungry like Walter Graves', and she found herself backing away in terror. He snatched her. Faster than humanly possible he snatched her. And he wouldn't let go. "Those men…they uh, they would've raped you." He said owlishly, peering into her large eyes as their noses pressed. "Maimed you. _Killed you_." He continued, head tilting in fascination. But it wasn't her eyes that entranced him, this was no hero's kiss. This stranger had her chin in an iron grip, but he was looking deeper, and scaring her more than those nameless pricks had ever done. _He's mentally ill,_ she realized, _he'll kill me, too…_

"What's your name, doll-face?"

"Trisha," she managed to squeak around his fingers and what she suspected was a broken jaw. She half-expected those hands to strangle her. She tasted warm blood, felt it pool in her teeth, dribble down her chin. But if the clown had even noticed, he didn't care. 'Trisha Tanaka."

"So, hmmmm, Trisha-Trisha Tanaka you haven't answered my question."

"You haven't asked one," she returned, as politely as she could.

"Haven't I?" The Cheshire Cat asked, one brow raising. But there was nothing comical about this Clown. Was he a hallucination? Was the real Trisha Tanaka lying unconscious in that alley, plaything to those three thugs-?

"Because I had to," she said at last. "Because someone had to stand up to them. Do what was right. They were going to kill me," she stated, growing more emboldened with every word. "I wasn't going to die without a fight."

He sighed, and shook his head sadly as he released her. Hefted her aching into his arms. Pressed that handkerchief against that ragged scalp wound, still spurting profusely. "That's uh…un-fort-u-nate, doll face."

"Unfortunate?" She moaned, clutching her head as they jostled forward. "Why?"

The stranger beckoned her closer with a knowing, paternal smile, as if for a private joke. "In _this _city?" he asked owlishly, crumpling something then sliding it slowly between her breasts. "Tsk, tsk. You won't last a _day_."

* * *

…Joker.

First a bank. Then a mob meeting. From what Gordon's CI had said, only one man dead. Pencil through the eye, if GCPD confidential informant codename PENGUIN could be trusted.

_Trusted? _Bruce had to sneer. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was a craven who took money to spy on his own kind. Too cowardly to come forward himself, too ashamed to face the prison he so well deserved he'd flipped, flipped and served a master he despised nearly as much as nickname.

He'd only caught Crane a week ago, settling up shop in the Narrows, trying to keep score. He hadn't gotten all his cronies, though. That Brian Douglas, the Batman-would-be, had gotten away before GCPD had arrived. Perhaps Crane had felt guilty for what his toxin had become—he'd certainly expressed remorse to Gordon. He'd also laughed in the cop's face before being handed to the FBI. Professor Jonathan Crane had a PhD in neuropsychiatry, and knew more than any other human how to fake a mental illness. And that would be his defense, Bruce was sure of it.

The FBI Director hadn't seemed so convinced. Told Gordon—who'd confided in him—that Crane's case might never see the light of day. The man was guilty, Bruce knew beyond a doubt. Guilty. And behind bars—with or without a trial—was where this man belonged. Justice had been done, the Batman assented. That ache for vengeance assuaged. For now.

But tonight Bruce had yet another murderer to track, and from what Gordon said, he couldn't've gone far.

"See here?" Lt. Gordon showed him the nail-studded bat, wrapped lovingly in CSU plastic. "Blood, flesh, and hair."

"A woman?" He grunted. It wouldn't be the first…

"Could be a victim. Could be our Killer. Whoever did it certainly got close enough," the haggard man explained. "Nora?"

The Gotham County Coroner was wary. Wiry. Tempestuous. And she didn't like him. Didn't trust him. And she sure as hell didn't put up with his presence on her crime scene. "Back off, Bats," Nora Fields, Forensic Pathologist, bristled from her intimidating height of four foot eight. "That tape says 'police line, do not cross.' I don't see a badge, so it means you, too."

"Any ID's yet?" Gordon asked her.

"None." She replied crisply. "Whoever killed them stripped the bodies—wallets gone."

"Or an opportunist," Batman grunted. He'd done scavenging, in his seven years away from Gotham, and dead men made for easy pick-pocketing.

"No," Nora insisted. "They used gloves. It's our killer, you can be sure of it. But he left facial structure, dentition, and fingerprints intact, though. My guess is he'll dump the ID's and cards, try to throw us off the scent."

"I agree," Gordon said. "False leads to tie us up."

"But I know _who_ they are," the Coroner continued. "If not their names. See these bats?" Studded, grisly-looking wooden clubs with dark splashes of crimson, nearly black. She shone UV, and they lit up even more. "These are the _Batmen, _your prodigious progeny," Nora glared at up him. "My office estimates they've been involved in over thirty-one minority homicides just this summer—Jews, Muslims, Hispanics, Asians…they haven't been picky on who they target."

More copycats. More imitators. This time killing in his name. Bruce felt sick. The Batman felt _rage._

"Gordon thought the killing was close range," he rasped instead.

"These two," the stumpy woman unzipped the body bags and probed at the wounds. "See the bruising and compression around the wound edges? Straight transection of the thoracic spinal cord then laterally into the vena cava."

"A medic?" He continued that train of thought.

"Possibly," Nora said with distaste. "He knew what he was doing, anatomically speaking, of course. They bled out, half paralyzed, and _slowly," _she shuddered. "But that's not my point: that thrust cut through spinal bone and muscle, not to mention the ligamentum flavum and anterior longitudinal ligament. That took _strength_, and lots of it. The third took a knife through the rib cage straight to the heart…at a _distance._ I'll have to open them up to know for sure, but it seems to me from initial measurements the wounds could be made with the same weapon. This one, Sergeant? He's fast. And _strong._"

"Or she," Gordon reminded her mildly, gesturing gingerly to the long hair on that bat.

"_He_," Nora snapped. "_Gwen Paltron_ couldn't've done it, Jim, and I've seen enough of that woman's work to know. Your killer is a _man_. That hair and that blood, that belongs to a victim. She lay here," she gestured to a shallow imprint in the alley's dirt and grime. "Her footprints lead in, a man's lead out. My guess is she was carried away. But looking at the depth of the prints and the recumbent body, she's not more than 45 kilos. Give me that, Bats," the coroner demanded gruffly. "See this hair? If I had a microscope I'd know for sure. But my guess is from the thickness of the shaft, your girl, Sergeant Gordon, she's Asian."

"I'll put a call in to all the local hospitals," the cop assented. "BOLO for a petite Asian female, injured with a scalp wound. And it's Lieutenant now, Nora," Gordon stated proudly.

"My, my," the small woman smiled—a rare sight, indeed. "My baby's all grown up now, Bats."

Bruce was confused. But the Batman was silent and stoic as ever. The newly promoted Lt. James Gordon flushed. "Nora Fields was my babysitter, back in the day," he explained. "She wasn't a Fields, then, of course—"

The story went on longer, but the Batman's presence did not. He slipped away, unnoticed, while Jim Gordon continued to reminisce.

Asian female. Acutely injured. At night, and in the Narrows. Bruce knew she wouldn't last long. He didn't have to look far. Her rescuer, to no great surprise, had done most of the footwork for her. He found her stumbling, dazed, within half a block of Gotham Memorial Hospital. He dropped from the fire escape railing like a dead weight, landing with a THUD! in the alley before her.

"Oh!" She started in terror. Then, "Oh!" she said again. "It's—it's _you_. It's really, finally you." Skinny fingers brushed dark bangs away. Even bleeding with clothes askew she was _blushing._

…_another fan, _Bruce thought wearily. "Um, hi," she tittered, stumbling into the light. "I mean, um…" Her head wound was still bleeding, dark clots congealing in her thick hair. A strip of skin swung from her arm like jelly, flesh gouged from elbow to wrist. And her left breast…her left breast hung out, and the skin was cracked down through raw, pink tissue and marbled fat. The sight both drew and repulsed him…he'd never see a woman the same. Not after that.

But she continued babbling. Sometimes coherent, sometimes in shock. He approached her cautiously. "Are you alright?"

"Yes! I mean, no…" she stumbled, and he caught her. "You gave me a heart attack," the girl admitted. She looked a child, but that adult body—and his own—argued differently. Up close and in the light, Nora Fields had been right, both about ethnicity, and that her fragile frame couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. "And you're too late. You'd better watch out-there's people doing your job for you."

"My job?" He growled.

"Saving people. I came to the Narrows because I thought, you know, I might see you. They're afraid of you. All of them. I thought…I thought I'd be safe. But I didn't kill those guys, this Clown did." She pulled out a crumpled, blood-soaked playing card from her bra as she rambled. "He gave this to me," she blushed. "He said it was his 'calling card', but there's not even a name or a number on it—"

The card was soaked and wrinkled, but even then he knew it instantly. "Joker," he grunted in recognition.

"What?"

Bruce tried to hide his surprise. And anger. It had been months since Jim Gordon had tasked him with finding this new criminal…and now the Joker had killed again. Four dead in one night…though if Nora Fields was correct, the last three were hardly worth mourning over. Why would the Joker care? Why stop them? Why intervene? And why, he wondered, would he help the girl—? "He's called the Joker, and I'm amazed he let you live."

"Oh," she cocked her head, blood still trickling through her dark hair. "Is he a bad guy, then?"

She swayed. He caught her. Carried her. It was less than fifty steps to the ER doors. "Aren't they all?"

"You mean there's more of them out there?" she asked him, suddenly far more lucid and attentive. "More copy-cats? More imitators?"

She was smart. Too smart. Feigning delirium just to get close to him, picking up on a nuance like that, all while ignoring those injuries only minutes after an attack…he had to get away. And fast. He doubled his pace, studying her intently. "You're a journalist, aren't you," he finally said.

She flushed and swelled with pride, despite the pain. "Not yet-"

He glared down in consternation. "No comment."

Orderlies were already rushing her direction as ER bay doors swung open. But people—patients, nurses, doctors—were staring. Pulling out smart phones. Even one of the orderlies gawked, and another snapped a picture. He was used to the cameras and paparazzi as Bruce Wayne…but as Batman? He felt suddenly weary. "Help her," he commanded, and they jumped to obey. They strapped her to a stretcher. Put some pressure on that leaky wound. Covered her chest. Gave her some dignity.

She'd need surgery. Plastic surgery. A good therapist. And _time._ Lots of it.

…but she'd live. He'd made sure of that. He turned, meant to leave, but to his lasting amazement, the Leper called him back: "_Battoman_," she whispered after him, bleeding fingertips pressed together in gesture of _gassho_, "_Arigatou gozaimasu." _

Bruce Wayne nodded once, then the Dark Knight was gone.

All that night he scoured the streets for the murderer. Her savior, but a murderer none-the-less. But all the alleyways were empty, and the Joker was nowhere to be found.

It was four am before the motorbike was parked. Even longer before the Kevlar was replaced. By the time Bruce made his way upstairs, Alfred was dozing peacefully on the sofa, Sudoku puzzles scattered at his feet. "Sir?" the aging Butler called, not a trace of grogginess in his crisp voice the second his footsteps hit the tile. "Will you require refreshment before turning in?"

"No," Bruce said hoarsely, staring into the fireplace.

"Another rough night, I presume?"

He wanted to tell him about the girl. About the thanks he'd finally received from this stranger, how good it was to be recognized…he wanted to ponder aloud why the Joker would save her. But then he'd have to tell Alfred how her clothes had been tattered, the hunk of skin missing from her scalp, how one breast had swollen twice the size of the other, bare nipple leaking blood and fissures striped with fat…

He shook his head, thought better of it, and turned away. "More copy cats, Alfred," he finally sighed. "More masked men menacing my city."

Alfred was quiet. Pensive. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly.

"Beating minorities. _Killing_ them, even. They called themselves Batmen, Alfred," he turned, but Englishman's face was as stoic as ever. "_Batmen_. This isn't what I meant when I said I wanted to inspire people. It's like I've brought a plague with me."

But the Butler corrected him. "You misunderstand, sir. These men, these criminals, and these poor, sick deluded people…sir, they've always been here. You are the catalyst that draws them like moths to flame. But only once you expose them can you begin to catch or cure them. If not, they would only remain in the shadows and prey on people," Alfred explained. "You weren't here for seven years. Seven years, sir. You don't remember what it was like, but I do. You have, sir, turned over a rock and shone a light in that dark, slimy den of desperate, scuttling creatures. Should you be so surprised that you've found so many?"

"No," Bruce answered. But that guilt laid heavily on him.

…and in the coming months, as the Joker tore his City apart and struck down those he held dear, it would come to lay even heavier still.

* * *

**February 2029**

**Café Havana**

The meet was a small coffee joint in the Narrows. The best neighborhood in the Narrows, to be sure…but still the worst part of Gotham. Perhaps the Suit had thought to scare him, test his courage, but Christopher Holden knew these streets, knew this City. He knew how to read graffiti and gang signs. Perhaps the lords of the streets had changed—changed so much!—in the interim eight years, but he still knew the Laws of the Jungle. The Laws of Gotham. Mayor Liam Holden had been a Man of the People, and he was Gotham's Own. His father had lived on these streets and died upon them. They held no shadow of threat, fear nor shame. Not for his father, and certainly not for him.

Chris wore an old, soup-stained suit and unpolished shoes, kept his phone on and twenty bucks cash, but ditched his watch and rings at home. Took the bus in—people were less likely to try something on the bus. Something violent, that is. You still had to be mindful of pickpockets. He kept his hands in his pockets, nonchalant, and no groping fingers dared enter. As the bus puttered to a rickety stop he kept his head down, eyes front, and walked with purpose and with pride from the bus stop to the dimly light café. Unmolested.

He shook the rain and grime from his shoes on a sopping, rather inadequate welcome mat, proclaiming BIENVENIDOS! in bright colors in stark contrast to the cheerless grey pallor of the streets. BBC Español flashed muted across three flat screens. On the overhead speakers, 107.9 QBA "El Radio Cuba!" blared a festive mix of brass and off-key singing. The new Cuban National Anthem. _Again_. Ever since Cuba's new Castro-free government held elections—true democratic elections for the first time on Cuban soil—that tune had hit the radio and the web in more dubsteps, dance mixes, and covers than he cared to count. There'd been talk of naturalizing US-born Cubans, there'd been scandal as President and First Lady Rosalinda Calderon _and _the entire Spanish Royal Family both had flown in for the inauguration, there'd been parties and fiestas in the streets of Havana, Miami, New York, and Gotham creating a _barrio_-wide increase in Noise Ordinance Violations, and a nationwide shortage of both firecrackers and _rum. _

He remembered July 4th, 2026, two-hundred and fifty years of independence. The USA still had her social and political problems—so many of them—but they still remembered. Still celebrated. He smiled at the screens as he walked past. Cam'd been complaining about the media attention, but it was Cuba's time to celebrate. Let them finally have their turn.

On the fast side, in the darkest corner, the Suit was waiting, as expected. "Frankly, Mr. Holden, I'm amazed you came."

"Frankly, Mr. Murray, I'm amazed you invited me," Chris Holden returned. "Given what happened to Jason Sturgis. But then again, you can neither confirm nor deny-"

"That he was arrested and sentenced under the Intelligence Community Directive 701? No." FBI Director Daniel Murray confirmed. "Not even off the record, Mr. Holden. And I suppose now is the point in the conversation you reveal to me I'm being recorded."

Chris relaxed just enough to smile, tapping the wire in his tie. "You got me there, old man. I know who you are, you know what I do. What do you want?"

The waitress came (in all her bare-legged, festive glory, he couldn't help but notice) apologizing that Café Havana no longer offered _la democracia_ due to the more politically correct "international sugar cane shortage" crisis. The suit waved her off, and ordered them two coffees.

"You know, I don't think this place even _has_ a liquor license," Murray muttered as the waitress sashayed away. She swung those hips like that on purpose, Chris was sure. Cam was pretty, that Martha Wayne-like perfect picture of stately, statuesque old East Coast blood, but this Marísol had _curves_. T and A, he kicked himself for noticing. He might be engaged, monogamous, and a gentleman, but he was still _male_, of which morena Marísol, her unbuttoned blouse and her tip jar were acutely aware.

"And what would you arrest them for?" Chris asked, tearing his eyes from her retreating figure and taking a swig of the coffee. Yeah, terrible. Just as he remembered it. "Poor coffee? Or _Patriotism_?"

At that, Murray put his cup down. He took his coffee black, Chris noted, a strong man who needed the caffeine. The haircut was regulation, yes, but that combined with the rigid backbone, and lean, muscled shoulders made him think military. And Daniel Murray _had_ been ex-Rangers, Chris remembered. He'd fact-checked the man before agreeing to the meet, but it was always best to keep a fresh eye. To look for the story in the face before you. And this face wasn't so much old as weathered. Guilty conscience. Patriotism—that well-placed word had struck a cord. _Gotcha. _"What do you want, Director Murray?" Chris pressed again, this time more insistent. The 'confessionals' were always the hardest. Coming clean, especially when the consequences could be so severe, was the most difficult, most dangerous thing a man even like Director Daniel Murray, FBI Gotham City Branch could ever do. But the older man had spent over 30 years in service to this country, both military and civil. The man had ideals. The man loved his country. He was a patriot, and Christopher Holden could use that.

"What do I want?" Dan Murray mused, stirring the steaming beverage before him. "I'd like to be young again. Like to have had kids. Like to think the services I've done this country have meant something, at least sometime and to someone, and that the sleepless nights and second thoughts and doubt are just the bitter rantings of a paranoid, ageing mind," his source confessed. "Fuck, I sound like Jack McClain. Never thought I'd be that old geezer boring some young man to tears. Figured I would have snuffed it before that point ever came…but to answer your question, no, Mr. Holden-"

"Chris," he corrected kindly.

"No, Chris," the older man continued. "I'm not here to pull a Jason Sturgis. He wasn't married. I am."

"You do realize you just confirmed everything-"

"And you do realize I'm asking you, no, begging you not to imply that. Not now. Not _ever,_" Murray took a long drag at his drink. "I'm risking my job, my life—my wife's life—by even talking to you, Chris. You're TV 18, and right now, the Bureau doesn't look kindly on that."

Chris disconnected the microphone. Held up his hands, offered the pieces. "Off the record?"

"You misunderstand, Chris," Dan Murray looked him dead in the eyes. "I'm not here to tell you a story. I'm here to ask you a _favor._"

The brassy Cuban National Anthem couldn't escape the vortex of this sudden, shrinking silence. Even eight years ago, running from the Roman, Christopher Holden hadn't felt so cornered. So completely trapped. "Why me?" he finally asked.

The Suit shrugged. "Call it professional integrity. Maybe I envy you your honesty. But either way, I think you're a man who can help."

Even a year ago he would've jumped at the chance. But now…now he had obligations. Responsibilities. Commitments. _Cam_… "I'm sorry, Mr. Murray, but my investigative journalism days are done. If you need an independent undercover, it'll have to be someone else."

But Murray waved him off. "Nothing like that. I'd like you to hire someone."

"A federal plant?" Chris scoffed. "I'm an _independent _news source, Murray. There's no way I'm compromising on that. Not a chance."

"She's not a fed," FBI Director Dan Murray told him sadly. "She's just a kid, and thanks to me she's in a shitload of trouble." He slid a photo across the table.

Asian female, GSU emblazoned on her sweatshirt. Bright eyes crinkling into their corners. She seemed harmless enough. "She looks young."

"She's twenty-two."

He sighed. He should say no. Ought to walk away right now…but the story-teller in him was piqued. "So what's her story?"

"An immigrant journalism student took a school project a little too far. Crossed the wrong people. First Falconi, then _my_ people. And those bastards threw a 99 year-old man in the lock-up for terrorist sympathies because he'd spent some time on the wrong side of the Pacific theater during World War 2. Now she's blacklisted. Lost her scholarship, lost her place in her major, and for some _strange_ reason no one's offered to hire her despite a spotless CV."

She was on the run. Not a fugitive, no; but she had nowhere else to go. "What do you want me to do?"

His answer was simple. "Hire her."

He couldn't do that. Couldn't play favorites. TV 18 was about self-reliance, self-education, and individual merit. He'd compromised with the networks on advertising, but his fledgling news channel stood firm on this. "In the last four years I've won _three Pulitzers_," he explained. "You have any idea how many journalists want to work for me, Mr. Murray? How l_ong_ the interview process is?"

"It's not fair what we've—what _I've _done to this girl, Chris," Dan begged him. "I don't care if she's doing make up or janitorial work, just give her a chance. Please."

He looked at her picture again. Smiling. Crinkled eyes nearly disappearing into those epicanthal folds. So young, so full of hope, still teeming with talent and the promise of prospects…and he remembered his own tenure at GSU, cut short by the wrath of the Roman. He sighed. Daniel Thomas Murray, FBI Field Director and amateur Alaskan fisherman, had got him hook, line and sinker. "Do you have a phone or an address I can reach her at?"

"Neither."

He frowned. "How can I get in touch?"

"Sisters of Mercy," the FBI Director drained the rest of that mug. "She's been sleeping there."

And that settled it. They'd experimented with living together, but fiancé or not, Cam missed the hustle and bustle of downtown out at the Holden Estate, and he couldn't stand the morning traffic commuting from hers. They spent weekends together, the occasional weekday night, but for the most part they both relished their old haunts and privacy. All it took was one phone call. Cam wasn't happy about it, but she did it for him. So a young Sister named Teresa Margaret led him through rows upon rows of sleeping men, women, even whole families sprawled across the pews of the giant Cathedral to where Trisha Tanaka lay sleeping.

"Hi," he told the startled young woman. "I'm Chris. I'm here to help."

* * *

She did it for Chris.

It was all for Chris, Cameron Shaw tried to tell herself. Every headline helped both their careers, every story promoted their news station. Headlines, deadlines, popularity. Readers, viewers and subscribers were all that mattered, and like some sick Reality TV series contestant she danced and preened for the judges, desperate for their approval.

…and she'd slept with some. So what. Vicky Vale had done the same—sat on her knees or laid on her back and spread her legs just like the tabloids claimed she was doing anyways and suddenly the world was an easier place. No more fighting stereotypes or sexual inequality. The real inequality was libido, and man's constant need for something, someone, _anyone _to satisfy him. It made him weak. It made him vulnerable. It wasn't sex, she said to herself, not _really._ These dumb, boorish brutes weren't the academic patriarchs and forceful misogynists her grandmother had to deal with, no; these men were flabby, middle-aged, desperate, socially and sexually insecure. They'd bow to anything with a cunt. You simply grabbed them by the balls and steered them where you wanted to go. Cameron Shaw of TV 18 prided herself that she wasn't some poor, victimized Monica Lewinsky—she was Cleopatra, and the power lay at her doorstep, not theirs.

Nat didn't know, of course. Cam couldn't tell anyone. It wasn't that she was ashamed (ashamed of what? It was the 21st century, she just couldn't help if others were so narrow-minded), it was just…they wouldn't understand. Couldn't see eye to eye. And Natalie Hendricks, scientist-extraordinaire, was as every bit as much a prude as she'd ever met. She'd had sex and she'd even climaxed, Cam had been able to coax out of her, but Nat was so damned uncomfortable talking about it Cam had to laugh out loud at her friend's expense.

It was hard keeping up relationships, and not just because the secrets she couldn't share. She worked more than full-time, and took her research (and often her subjects) home with her. She was also engaged, as Natalie and Beck kept forgetting, and _a wedding budget was hard to plan_. Chris Holden wasn't exactly hurting for money, but he had the station to protect. At any given time he kept enough back to support both them, the Estate, and the whole damn station for six months should Jenkins from network pull the plug. "Enough for us all to find our feet, or at least give our employees a running start!" Chris would quip. He'd given her only $125,000 for the photos, the dress, the venue, the musicians, the reception, the invitations and all the decorations.

She kept telling him they needed more. Trying to find an event hall and a caterer in Gotham for that many people on _that _budget wasn't an easy thing to do. He'd joked they could have it out at the Holden Estate (at least, Cam hoped—pretended, really—that he'd been joking, and he'd gone along with it), but she'd wanted something more upscale. More Downtown. He'd suggested _le Carnard Bleu_, but she'd turned him down. She couldn't. Not there. Not after Jason Sturgis…

It didn't help having Trish around. At home and the office, bumbling, backwards, ever-so-gracious and eager-to-please little Trisha Tanaka under her feet and in her hair. Always. She'd never had to say anything, of course; she'd opened up her home and Trish wouldn't dare speak a word. Not like she could. Her heavily accented, limited English inhibited any substantial conversation from being had. But she was outwardly nice to her, mothered her, took her under her wing and bragged how well it was working often enough and loud enough that even Chris believed her. And everyone else was so helpful, too. Paul the Cameraman, Bill from maintenance, Clara the closeted lesbian receptionist…everyone was just so damn _nice_ to Trisha Tanaka and it had nothing to do with her tits at all, Cam sneered.

Cam was off limits, the boss' fiancé, but poor Trisha was just overwhelmed with American kindness and generosity. _You should learn to use it, girl,_ Cam thought more than once. Why settle for the office temp/coffee girl when you could be somebody's trophy wife? Not that that life would suit Cam, of course. She had a brain to go with her body. Chris was nice, and sweet, and she'd marry rich and marry well, but she had a career to pursue.

It was late, it was dark, and her flat mate had already changed into her PJ's. _Hello kitty?_ Cam shorted with derision. _Way not to make yourself a stereotype, Trish_. She herself was winding down with a glass of chardonnay when a knock came at the door.

Trisha's brown eyes shifted, and she scampered to her room without a word. She didn't have any interviews for the night, but that was opportunity knocking. She bit back the sour taste in her stomach, and swallowed the rest of the white wine in one long, smooth sip.

Flass. Arnold Flass.

She kept down that snort of disgust, and stood innocently in the doorway. "Can I help you, Sergeant?"

"Yeah, sugar. I'm looking for Cammy…" his eyes trailed downwards without a trace of shame. "And a good time. "

"Inside," she snapped.

Of all her informants, she hated Arnold Flass the most. He wasn't some desperate, divorced defense attorney looking to score, not some powerful politician who relished the sound of his own voice and the feel of a woman worshipping him. Flass was flabby, flaccid, and fetid. As far as Cam could tell, he never bathed. Rarely brushed his teeth. And he reeked of alcohol and stale cigarette butts. The man wasn't educated, but he was _smart_: played Scheherazade, always keeping some key information to himself, left her begging for a second course. She slammed the door in flustered fury. "What do you have for me?"

"I'd like to see what you've got for me, first," Flass grinned.

But Cam slapped his hands away. "First you shower," she spat acid. "Then we talk. Then we fuck. My house, my rules."

"Your house, your rules," he shrugged, unperturbed. "_My_ story."

* * *

Arnold Flass was _loud_. The panting and heaving and grunting she could take, but it was the way he made Cam scream that rankled her. He was hurting her. Actually _hurting_ her, humiliating her, and she went along with it for a few feet of print. He was Walter Graves all over again, and now he was here in her house. But it wasn't her house, not really. It was Cam's. And Cam had let him through that door time and time and time again. He left her chafing and raw and in disgusted tears but he always left something in return. Cam's house. Cam's life. Cam's choice. She still felt miserable for her.

In the next room, Trisha Tanaka rolled back over. Pulled the pillow over her head to drown out the indecency and willed herself back to sleep. It hadn't been the first time Cameron Shaw had a man over in the middle of the night, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

* * *

**HARVEY DENT: A MAN WITH TWO FACES**

**Is Gotham's District Attorney the Savior he seems?**

**by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press**

"I believe in Harvey Dent," former interim DA Rachel Dawes spoke out nearly a year ago on Dent's triumphant run for District Attorney. ADA Rachel Katherine Dawes rose to universal acclaim and admiration for her determination and above all, her transparency in her brief stint in office after the tragic demise of former District Attorney Carl Finch. And while those advertisements—and her endorsements—seemed honest enough at that time, recent evidence has come to light revealing that might not be the full extent of her campaign contribution.

Although in recent months she has declared to the Internal Affairs Board her intent to date her supervisor, the afore-mentioned District Attorney Harvey Dent, a well-placed source close to the crime-fighting couple states evidences of an affair lasting for over a year, placing the integrity of Dent's campaign into serious doubt. This anonymous individual was further able to provide convincing evidences including phone records, restaurant and even hotel receipts paid for by Dent's election campaign. Eye-witness accounts also place Dawes at the scene of several of these hotels, as well as Dent's apartment, in the months preceding their "official" relationship.

Perhaps, as some speculate, the Interim DA was only offering her expertise and advise to the new incumbent. But is the truth more sinister still?

While the personal and sexual lives of key public figures have always piqued public interest, they are usually of little political relevance. However, if Dawes and Dent were to be found an undeclared couple at the time of his acceptance to office, it would cast a dark shadow of doubt on the so-called "stainless" reputation of Gotham's self-declared White Knight.

Gotham believed in Harvey Dent, but can she continue to do so after this purposeful deceit? Is District Attorney Harvey Dent the force for change that Gotham needs, or is he simply another pretending politician masquerading on the hope of millions?

It was a good article. The subject was well-researched, relevant, controversial, raised valid questions. But it still felt a bit like a gossip column, Beck thought. Especially given Chris' stance on personal vs. professional life of political candidates. In her boss' opinion, someone's "sexuality didn't affect their ability to give a fair ruling or handle finances. It isn't news, it isn't relevant, and it isn't anybody's goddamned business", Beck had heard him voice more than once.

…And Rebecca May James respected him for it.

It was a brilliant article, if a little bit bloggy…but Cam's genius went unappreciated. Waiting to release the article the day of Wayne's fundraiser had been a fantastic move, press-wise, but the Joker's entrance to Gotham's centerstage would leave her co-worker both high and dry.

* * *

Dan Murray.

Dan Murray had gotten her this job. FBI Director Dan Murry, the self-same man who'd sent Immigrations and Customs Enforcement on that raid to her parent's home to silence, shame, and terrify her. Whatever else she might feel towards the man, it was clear he'd had a change of heart. When Christopher Holden had found her at Sisters of Mercy, she'd been friendless, fatherless, and utterly alone.

It didn't help that she was petite and female, the consummate victim. Chris had been kind, unlike Walter Graves. Perhaps too kind, speaking with that wide, openmouthed American optimism that equated slowed speed and more volume with somehow helping a non-native understand. Trisha Tanaka had been so grateful she'd leapt at the chance…and too fearful to embarrass him. He'd employed her, housed her in his fiancée's home, and she couldn't fathom humiliating him now.

So she kept her head down and her nose clean, and spoke with that halting accent that so horribly haunted her as an immigrant child. Even Cam—now her flatmate for over four months—had no idea. It was an act, all an act, and she got through everyday by telling herself that it was research, rehearsal, that someday she'd be a real investigative journalist with Pulitzer Prizes like Christopher Holden, not some twitchy intern who jumped at every shadow. It was harder, too, since Micheal was gone.

(He was busy. So busy. That's why he didn't return her texts or calls. Why their skype dates grew fewer and further between…) But she'd kept her cover through thick and thin, through Chris' kindness and Cam's midnight trysts. She endured the kind, over-wide smiles of people who assumed she wasn't all that bright or social, or the second glances and shadowed presence of those who thought she wouldn't know better. She'd learned a lot since those days stalking Dan Murray for more Fear Night information, but shock, and sadness—more so than any other emotion—were her most ingenious enemies.

It was a normal day at the office, fetching coffees, making copies; an obligatory stammering to Chris how well she was doing. Dodging Clara's awkward come-ons, avoiding Bill Grüber from custodial services…the only bright part of her day was Paul Binkowski. Middle-aged, paunchy, wrinkled and jovial, Mr. Binkowski ("call me Paul! I insist!") brought her a buttery, sugar-crusted apple _paczek _every morning. Talked about home, how his grandparents missed it before they'd passed. He'd never been to Poland himself, he said, but he remembered how nostalgic, how sad, how joyous they were to reminisce…He wasn't an immigrant, not really. Not like her. But he understood that feeling, and it almost made her cry. And—she had to admit—some nights it did.

She'd just had her pastry. Ducked around Reception to avoid Clara's eager eyes. Got stopped by some very harried bike messenger to deliver some urgent information to someone on somesuch floor, and before she could ask for a repetition the elevator doors clanged shut and up she zoomed to the seventh floor, the actual studio portion of TV 18 Studios.

Green screens, no matter how accustomed you were to them, were still glaringly bizarre. She wondered how it felt to be a meteorologist, surrounded by nothing but green all day, feigning forecast and weather patterns on a blank screen behind her. It felt, she thought sadly, just as phony, just as lonely, as her job now. She glanced down to the packet in her arms, trying to make sense of this so strange and seemingly urgent request.

It was a leaked press release from City Hall, announcing the tragic demise of Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb and Justice Janet Surillo. Trisha let out an involuntary squeak.

All eyes on the newsroom floor turned to her. She felt her face grow hot.

"…regret to inform our viewers that Salvatore Meroni has successfully posted bail this morning after surrendering his passport. However, hope remains in that everyday these monumental proceedings continue, Gotham City is one day closer to setting the "Dent Initiative" as state-wide counterattack against this catastrophic corruption. Emilia Pond, defense for the accused, could not be reached for a statement," Chris finished reading the teleprompter and turned to Camera 2 with not a trace of annoyance. "I'm Christopher Holden, and you're watching TV-18, Gotham News."

"Trisha?" he asked as soon as they'd panned to an emergency commercial break. "What is it?"

"She's dead," she told him blankly, in perfect, unaccented English. "Judge Surillo. And Loeb. He killed them."

The Joker killed them. Her words—and that news—left all of Gotham reeling in its wake. Chris had been devastated, but he hadn't been so oblivious as not to notice. He was also polite enough not to ask her about it—but in the chaos of the following weeks he did go out of his way to avoid her at work where before he'd been so chivalrous.

_I've embarrassed him_, she thought. _He's ashamed to face me._

But Chris' sudden estrangement hadn't been the hardest to bear. When she'd returned home that night to Flass' raucous rutting and Cam's cries Trisha knew who'd leaked that premature press release to them, and _why_. "So you speak English," Cameron Shaw purred once the police sergeant had swaggered out, whistling. "You ever think of telling anyone and I'll kick you right back on the streets…and I'll let Arnold Flass know where to find you."

* * *

**March 2029**

Gotham City wasn't safe.

He'd worry, late at night. Call Cam just to hear her voice. He'd already bought her mace and a tazer. He didn't believe in guns, not for himself, no—but he thought about getting her one. A classy, mother-of-pearl vintage pistol set like his mother had. A woman's gun. More for show and aesthetic, a piece of artwork, than a firearm. Only to be used in greatest need…

But he was being stupid. Paranoid. Overprotective, Cam had called it. But what would she know? After Rachel Dawes took a tumble from the Wayne Penthouse, she'd been itching for a chance to interview this Joker. Wanted the fame, the publicity, the 'human interest' side of the story. Cam thought she knew how the world worked, how that madman thought, and it made her doubly dangerous to herself.

…so he had Benyamin "Binny" Abner hired on as the security guard for her apartment building. The man was ex-Mossad, quick on the draw and fast on the kill, even now in his sixties. His declassified CV had been short, but impressive. He was small and lithe, seemingly feeble, but incredibly virile. He might've been older than the other candidates, but Binny had the element of surprise on whatever hood tried to fell him. Chris hadn't been happy to hire a mercenary, but it was hard finding security in Gotham City that wasn't on Salvatore Meroni's employ. But Binny had no family in the States, and his daughter and granddaughters back in Israel had all completed compulsory military service and weapons training, so Chris had no conflicts of conscience in hiring him—no one else's family was going to be put at risk for the safety of his own. The thing with mercenaries, they had no loyalty. They followed money, the man with the most cash on hand wins. But Chris grew to trust him. The man was as incorruptible as the Batman. Binny Abner couldn't be blackmailed, and he couldn't be bribed: Chris let him name his own salary.

He had no fear, not for himself. The Holden Estate was well-fortified, and he had a panic room, should something like the Dent fund-raiser happen. TV 18 was well lit, highly trafficked, and independent enough that it didn't have the large audience pull that Gotham Network drew. The Joker was after _power_, not money, and he'd left Bruce Wayne well enough alone. Christopher Holden might be a former Mayor's son, but he had no real political proclivities.

But Chris was a Batman believer. Knew Jim Gordon personally. And Commissioner "Honest Jim" Gordon would do his city good, whatever the darkness or odds they faced. Chris believed in Harvey Dent—truly believed in him—and he stood stalwart in the face of mass exodus. Many of the manors around him closed, as the families decided to winter in the Hamptons, Naples, or visit their European vacation homes or Caribbean tax havens. Others shut themselves in, sending the staff into Gotham City for the necessary supplies to outlast this siege.

Not Chris. He drove himself, every day, to downtown Gotham and TV 18. Mike Engel thought he was crazy.

"There's no reason for you to stay, Chris," the older reporter had frowned. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

But he did. He couldn't say the Dawn Was Coming if he wasn't willing to weather the darkest of nights. And until the day Harvey Dent was abducted, Chris continued his small crusade. It didn't matter what Mike or anyone else thought (Binny would only shake his head silently), if there ever came a day when Christopher Holden couldn't hold his head up proudly, there wasn't much reason for him to have one. Carmide Falconi had scared him, yes; but he couldn't take his pride. Couldn't make him ashamed. And this terrorist styling himself as "the Joker" wouldn't either.

"Take the Batman into custody," Harvey Dent had surprised them all. Even Mike Engel's eyes had wavered from the platform, searching the crowd for the unmasked vigilante. But Chris knew, even then, the next words from Dent's mouth: I am the Batman.

Time would prove otherwise, and Jim Gordon would rise from the dead and with the Batman's help—and Harvey Dent's sacrifice—the Joker was caught. But Dent hadn't lied, not really. He had looked them all in the eye and spoken the truth. Not some politician's practiced pretense; no—Harvey Dent was the Batman. He'd put his personal safety aside for the greater good of Gotham. He _was _the Batman, Chris mused, smiling. The _idea _of the Batman. Weren't we all? But that rejoicing turned to mourning, that victory to ash. The police headquarters had been bombed, the Joker at large, panic and mobs and chaos and doubt…

Then an explosion. _The Explosion_. Arson set at 250 52nd street. TV 18 had followed the Batman to the scene. The world had gone to hell.

Initial reports said Harvey Dent had been killed. Rachel Dawes had been killed. They were both alive, the contradictions drowned the truth in a deluge of panic. They'd both been killed…

Clarity came when Rebecca James and Paul Binkowski saw the Batman pull him from the fire. Thirteen years ago, Mike Engel had sheltered him from the storm of reporters and cameras surrounding his father's sudden death. Christopher Holden made personally sure every second of that facial footage was permanently erased. No one needed to see Harvey Dent like that.

It had been a long day. A day stretched to weeks stretched to years. And this night—though Harvey Dent had promised them Dawn—only grew longer still. In the contemplative silence of his office, the walls and windows seemed to shrink. How strange, how sad, that humanity and mortality must always walk hand in hand. He'd interviewed Commissioner Loeb. Met the man personally. Neither he nor his father had ever liked him or his politics much (Loeb was a fiscal liberal and a staunch Batman opponent), but he was a man. A human being. More jarring still, Judge Surillo had been a supporter of his father's first Mayoral campaign all those years ago. Stuffy yet impossible to scare Janet Surillo had been a family friend.

…and Rachel. Assistant District Attorney Rachel Katherine Dawes. It had been a long time ago, just a short affair, two lonely people in the tangles of Gotham City, two desperate children together in the dark, just to know they mattered, that someone cared…

He called Cam, and she drove right over. Held him in his studio office, not caring who might see. He needed her now. Tonight. Needed her now more than ever.

* * *

**Janus Construction Site #2416**

Turner's syndrome sucked.

…balls, Gotham County Coroner Nora Jane Fields, MD/PhD Forensic Pathologist thought.

As a child, they'd called it congenital short stature. Pediatricians scratched their heads at growth charts and shrugged. Everyone had assumed she'd grow, and left it at that. Her parents weren't pushy, her parents weren't educated, and the word of professionals was taken as dogma, and the matter unattended. She'd gone through menopause thirty-five years ago, only months after her first period. And by then her growth plates had fused, and human growth hormone was no longer an option. While her high school classmates ran rampart with newfound hormones and height, Nora had found something else to take away the social pressure: Death.

She'd learnt to deal with the heartbreak of never knowing motherhood a long, long time ago. And honestly, she preferred the company of the dead to the living, and hadn't the patience for children or their irresponsibility. Give her a class of college students over the inquisitive, incessant questionings of a small child any day. She'd even gotten numb to the grotesqueness of it all, the grisly specters that sent veteran cops home with nightmares were now mundane. Routine. And, as time passed, she'd grown callous to even the faces of those she'd once known and loved.

Thomas and Martha Wayne? The case was hard on her co-workers. Hard on Jim—he'd confessed to her he'd watched the Wayne boy. Called, thanked her for being a better nanny than he ever could. But it hadn't been hard on her. She'd learned as a thirteen year-old that strong emotions or convictions, however well placed, couldn't change the universe. That staying objective, recording the facts and responding accordingly was far more useful than self-expression of grief or anger.

Carl Finch, Gillian Loeb, Janet Surillo, Lau, Weurtz, Rachel Dawes…and now District Attorney Harvey Dent as well. She'd warned him not to trust the Batman, but Jim Gordon was an adult now, and the GCPD Commissioner besides. She could hardly turn him over her knee to spank him, and the attack had been so personal she couldn't entertain her customary 'I told you so'. It was a lesson hard and lately learned.

So when she approached the scene shaky and sweaty the GCFD, GCPD and GCEMS held her deformed hands and patted her head and told her why don't you take the night off, Nora, damn stress getting to everyone, you knew the Gordon's personally, etc. etc. etc.

Turner's. It all came down to Turner's. She'd been an insulin dependent diabetic since eighteen. You'd think the responding paramedics would know the signs of hypoglycemia by now.

But with the Fear Night backlog and now this Joker's carnage, her sugars had been through the roof. Her last self-measured hemoglobin A1c had been 13.7. Charlie'd been telling her for months to back down, take it slower. What did that old fool know, anyhow. If he'd been a smart man, he'd have married someone less academic and less driven. It hadn't been more than a few months ago she'd taken a bolus of insulin, got a call and forgot to eat. Nora Fields had no doubt she'd be dead—or worse, permanently comatose (that fool Charlie was such a sentimental old goat. He'd never pull the plug)—if it hadn't been for one of her student's timely visit to the morgue. Jimmy Connolly was a bright boy, albeit awkward, and clumsily caring in all the wrong ways. Why he wanted to pursue criminal justice was beyond her. He'd do better—so much better—in mortuary sciences. Classmates picked on him for his height and bumbling boyishness, just as they had her.

…and those college-aged kids could be such _dicks_. So the Connolly boy joined the lonely vigil in her dead room, preferring silence and her dark utterances to the presence of his peers. He was even polite enough to accept her sugar-free candies, but she'd found half-eaten ones stuck to the bottom of her office trashcan. He hated them as much as she did, apparently, but he was too embarrassed to say no. He followed her hopefully, a lost chick looking for mothering, imprinted on the wrong hen. She didn't have the heart for nurturing, her cold-blooded nature precluded her from coddling, but in her presence his tormenters were if not respectfully then begrudgingly docile. And as long as he didn't trample underfoot or ruffle her feathers, this gruff Old Hen found she enjoyed his quiet company well enough.

She took her sugar. Sixty-three. Must've taken her insulin again, forgotten to eat. She sat gingerly, and popped two chalky tasting glucose tablets. She'd check it again before she rose.

But if ambient chatter was any indicator, her Turner's Syndrome might not be so problematic in the future.

"They got him!" The terse voice of Renee Montoya rang over the scene. "They caught that son of a bitch!"

Cheering. Whoops. High fives. All around the perimeter reporters and civilians were going crazy. They'd caught the Joker.

_They think we've won_, Nora thought numbly. All around, the GCFD, GCEMS and GCPD were stony. Silent. Only they knew what this victory had cost them. And they were right not to celebrate. Batman may have handed them the Joker, yes…then he threw the District Attorney off a construction site.

Nora Fields had never liked Rachel Dawes. The little ADA had the balls to catch Sal Meroni, sure; but Meroni's weren't the hands stained with blood. His were the deep pockets that paid for it, but the criminals who'd done the dirty deeds, whose depravity had made all those deformed, disfigured corpses laying on her slab…Rachel Dawes had let them off with a slap on the wrist in exchange for their testimony.

…and the Batman killed Dent for it.

_Was it worth it, Bats?_ Nora pulled the wallet from the deadman's pocket, confirming what she'd known all along: Harvey Dent, District Attorney. _Was she really worth it? _Rachel Dawes had been pretty. Intelligent. Independent. But there were millions of women in Gotham, many smarter, prettier, and more independent still. Jim depended on the Batman. The GCPD depending on the Batman. Hell, this who damn city depended on the Batman…and he'd just shat on all of them for the sake of this girl.

This _dead _girl. Sentimentality. Emotions. Had the Batman been using his brains rather than brawn Harvey Dent might still be alive. She turned to her team of interns. "Show me where he fell."

Overturned pipes, scuff marks, dust and dragging. A stray shell casing. She bent, gloved fingers snatching it up. "Bring me Jim Gordon's gun."

Crispus Allen, MCU Detective, stared.

"That's an order, Detective," Nora continued her work, nonplussed. "And bring me his written report."

"Gordon's yet to give a statement," Montoya grunted. "His family was here, yeah? You remember that? You think he's just gonna give us a fucking statement after that?"

"Good. Then it's more important. I want that gun, and I want it now," she stared hard at the casing. A shell—.38 special, from the measured rim diameter. "No radios! Go get it," she barked at Stephens. "Personally! And bring me a list of all guns registered to the Gordon family, James or Barbara Gordon, you hear?"

This round came from a _revolver_. Smaller carrying capacity. Even double-action was too slow on the reload. GCPD didn't use that type of gun. Hadn't for years.

Had Jim Gordon brought a personal weapon with him? And why? Was his wife wearing one for protection? She'd been ex-GCPD, too…

…did Jim engage in that awful practice of carrying an unregistered gun? She knew plenty of cops that did. Some of them good ones—even Lawless admitted to it once. _Not Jim_, she thought. _Not Jim. Not _her _Jim_. And even if he had, why use it—? He'd had his service pistol on him? Why use the wrong gun?

And who had he shot?

…had _Dent_ brought the gun? That made more sense. Dent bringing a weapon to protect Gordon's family from that vengeful vigilante. That made the most sense, actually…

"Listen up, people!" Nora stood, and addressed them all. "There's a firearm at this scene and I need it found. NOW!" Her CSI team jumped to attention. "Montoya!"

The stout Latina crossed her arm. Chewed her lip. "Yeah?"

"Find out if Harvey Dent owned a gun. Revolver, .38. ASAP."

The detective spit. "Yeah, Nora. I'll get right on that."

She was used to lip. And Montoya was the worst…aside from Paltron. But it was different tonight. Betrayal, loss…there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Nora Fields let it slide. "Detective Allen? A word?"

He nodded assent. They walked a ways, leaving CSI and her interns to walk the grid.

"Be honest," she demanded. "Who was at the scene?"

"Gordon," Allen read from that list. "Barb, Jimmy and B.B."

"No one else?" She pressed.

"And District Attorney Harvey Dent," laid in a body bag in an ambulance, waiting for the boys in blue to take him to his final resting place. But first, her slab. "But you already knew that," he nodded down to the GCEMS crew below them, where EMT's Ben Jacobi and Jennifer Henson accompanied the body.

"And that's all?"

"The Batman," Allen glared.

"I don't give two shits about the Batman," Nora bristled. "You tell me if there was a Detective Paltron on that list."

"No," Renee Montoya said, joining them with a look as though she'd swallowed lemons.

"An alibi, then? And how reliable?"

"Very," Montoya cursed. "_Dead_. She was on the fucking ferry with Lawless."

Lawless. Ferries. It registered, but it wasn't important somehow. Right now she had the scene in front of her, and if she lost track of that thought it was gone. No fresher eyes would see it after hers. She couldn't afford to miss anything. _Anything. _Someone shot a .38. Not Gordon. Not Barbara. Certainly not either of the kids. That left Dent, or the Batman…and it didn't seem his style. Either of their styles. As far as she knew, Harvey Dent had hated weapons, personal protection or no. Had trusted the GCPD to protect him, protect them all. Had stated it over and over again on his campaign trail: a personal sidearm was admission of failure. Gotham deserved a police department that could protect them.

The evidences just didn't add up. It felt staged. Faked. Off. Wrong. But Lieutenant—no, _Commissioner _James Gordon wouldn't lie. Not her Jim. Jim wouldn't lie, not to her, not to _anyone._ And the proverbial loose canon was nowhere to be seen. "I want those personal statements," she ordered brusquely, bagging that shell casing. "And I want those lists. Everything else can wait."

"I'm getting old," Nora grumped later to the now-naked corpse of Harvey Dent. "Old and paranoid." Some thought it eerie to converse with the dead. Not Nora. She preferred it. The dead never cast judgment, were excellent listeners, and they took your secrets, like their sins, to the grave.

Atlanto-occipital and atlanto-axial ring disruptions. Complete subluxation of C7 and T1. Innumerable burst fractures to the cervical and thoracic spines. All injuries consistent with Jim's testimony of fall—or push—from a great height. Harvey Dent had died quickly, the x-rays told her. It was just a shame about that face—he'd been so handsome, so charismatic in life. Now no matter how well the morticians covered the traces of her expert autopsy, there would be no open casket.

Not for Surillo. Not for Dawes. And certainly not for Dent.

* * *

**TV 18 Studios**

Good Morning Gotham.

Why? Because the Night is Darkest before the Dawn. And Harvey Dent had promised them the Dawn was Coming. He hadn't lived long enough to see it. But Chris Holden—like Gotham—still believed in Harvey Dent. A man whose dream all of Gotham could share. And would, if he had anything to say about it.

It needed to be bold. Brash. Controversial. As the host he'd remain neutral, but his guests would be free to propound their beliefs as loudly and as passionately as they wanted. He would play moderator. Let Gotham hear both sides, and decide for herself. No liberal or conservative media, no "sloppy, opinionated, or under-researched" efforts, he smiled, remembering some of his father's last words:

"Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

The words hadn't been his father's, no. They'd belonged to Joseph Pulitzer. He'd won three of the man's prizes, now. First for his account of investigating Wayne's disappearance, and second for _Gotham, a Tragedy_. He'd felt guilty accepting them…he hadn't exactly lived up to the man's legacy. He'd left the Bounty Hunter's name out of _The Prodigal_, if not her involvement, but a journalist was like a magician: he couldn't reveal his source. If he had, the magic would be gone.

…and that woman would've come after him, he didn't have to add. And truth be told, she scared him. She'd taken on Carmide Falconi single-handedly. And she could, because she had nothing left to lose. Chris respected that. Respected her. His first draft he'd referred to her only as that word Falconi had used, 'Ernestine', but she hadn't been happy about that, either. HYAENA had been her final codename. If she approved, she hadn't said. Gwen Paltron had maintained radio silence since their last goodbye, even after WATCHDOG, and if Chris was honest with himself, he preferred it that way.

And _Tragedy_ still bothered him. Kevin Santy had been killed, but his killer never caught. He'd interviewed Bramowitz and several of the other victims who'd spoken out only after their tormenter's death, but he'd never found "Johnny Doe". The boy's identity had been shrouded in mystery from day one, then the records sealed so tight by Surillo even Gotham couldn't get her hands on them. And usually what Gotham wanted from her police force, she got. Even Rachel Dawes had refused to comment.

"I won't help you, Chris." She'd told him.

"Just a hint. A clue. You don't have to say, but if I guess or get close-"

"Anything I say could be influential," she hefted her attaché case. "You either drop this line of questioning, Chris, or I don't speak to you until you do."

"He'd have to be important," he panted, following her doggedly down the courthouse steps. "Someone whose identity was worth protecting."

"Of course it was," on the steps, they could stand eye to eye. "He was a minor."

"But not anymore," Chris caught the implication. The narrowed down birthdates…

She bit her lip in self-directed fury. "He reached his majority during the hearing. But the crime occurred before then."

"He's not a kid anymore, Rachel. You don't have to protect him—"

"He was then," she called, continuing her descent. "And if you really, really understood what that man did to him, Chris, did to all of them, you'd realize they're all kids. And they will be, for a very, very long time."

The identity of the victim had been important. Influential. And not just because he was a minor. The identity had been crucial, prejudicial. So much so, he pieced together, that revealing it to the press _or even jury_ would have resulted in immediate mistrial. _Who the hell_, Chris thought, distracted even during the book launch party, _could be that famous—?_

But 2025 was four years ago now. Carl Finch, Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent and Judge Surillo were dead, and psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel was as tightlipped as ever. All the people who could identify him were gone. And Johnny Doe, whoever he was, gave no signs of coming forward. Or, he remembered Rachel's words with a touch of shame, the boy—young man—had killed himself.

First Santy…then Mani Delgado. Finch. Dawes. Dent. Surillo…

Everyone. Anyone. All dead. All gone. Had it been systematic? Purposeful? He did the math. Could Johnny Doe have been…the Joker? They'd never released his official identity, and Dan Murray had told him off the record it had never been found. The Joker was a young man, like himself, somewhere in his twenties or early thirties. A hard life, scars, and face paint made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. The idea of visiting Arkham Asylum intrigued him. Putting the question before that man…

No. He couldn't encourage Cam. And that madman was a pathological liar. Nothing he said could be believed. The source wasn't trustworthy, and with Cam, he couldn't afford to make himself a target. And Mani Delgado's suicide had been investigated a hundred thousand times. Even Jim Gordon had been convinced. "Let it lie, Chrissy," Clarissa Holden had scolded her son gently a thousand times over. "Just let it lie."

But it still _rankled_. Good Morning Gotham would be his masterpiece. His baby. His atonement.

Cam was excited about it, gushed about it, praised him and lauded him…and to be honest, she really, really wanted it. For herself. Statistics said he'd do better with a female co-chair. An attractive female co-chair, the psychologists didn't have to say. And Cam was stunning, to say the least. But they were already lovers, already affianced…already worked under the same roof. Would it stress them too much to work on the same show?

…and what would the viewers think? He couldn't afford—he _wouldn't_ afford—any semblance of bias or favoritism. Their engagement was public knowledge, and unlike your favorite family restaurant, politics and journalism frowned upon the concept of a "family business". So he'd opened up interviews to any comers, sweated for weeks about making final cuts and decisions. The word had gone out internationally that Pulitzer Prize winning author Chris Holden was looking for a co-host, and flocks of qualified, experienced, and even recent graduate journalists had descended on Gotham City. So many applicants, so many excellent candidates. He toyed with the idea of letting the staff vote on the final fifteen. A little democracy in action…

Trisha Tanaka. He blushed and cleared his throat as she brought his morning coffee.

"Hey," was all he said. God, he couldn't stand to face her. Felt like such a moron. And a little bit of a racist, something he'd tried so hard not to be.

"Hey," was all she said.

Another awkward encounter. Another in a longstanding series that would last forever until one of them was the bigger man. He was successful, rich, actually male, and her boss. He sighed. "Trish?"

"Yes?" she returned skittishly.

"I um, listen, about what happened-"

"It's okay," she stared at her feet. Well, breasts. Trisha Tanaka was svelte, yes; but there was no way with breasts like that she could see her shoes.

He kicked himself mentally, and moved on.

…it was hard. Even dressed as modestly as she was it was hard. Once you noticed them, you just couldn't help but look. Then not look. Then she noticed you not looking so you had to…

A flush went up her cheeks. "You wanted something?"

"What?" he blushed in turn. "Yes, I um, shit, Trish. I'm sorry-"

"It's okay," she shrugged, fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk. "You can't help it. No one can."

"Yeah, well, about..earlier. The whole speaking English thing-"

"I did not want to embarrass you. After you helped me. I am sorry." She dropped contractions when she was nervous, he noted. And her l's and r's changed, too. So she really had grown up in Japan, he grinned. English was her second language, after all.

"Yeah, well, I was the dick who automatically assumed that immigrant meant limited English proficiency. Forgive me?"

That smile. Damn, that smile. She lit up, so transparent when she was truly happy. "Apology accepted."

He moved to shake her hand, stood too abruptly. Knocked the whole stack of applicants and interview topics clean off his desk and all over the tile. He was so going paperless, after this…

She knelt down, frantically picking them up, the dutiful office girl. She'd been a journalism major, he suddenly remembered. Now look at her, scraping around on her knees, re-filing the applications for a job she'd probably dreamed of for so long. But the FBI had taken that away. Dan Murray had gotten her a hired here, sure; but it wasn't a career or profession. Not the life she'd wanted, and—he realized for the first time—not the one she deserved.

Trisha Tanaka was eager to please. Faked an accent for months as not to embarrass him. She was bright, she was kind, she was _helpful._ He'd do the right thing by her. Do what Director Murray couldn't: he'd send her back to school.

"Gun control," Trisha Tanaka read aloud. "On Good Morning, Gotham?"

"Yeah," Chris knelt beside her, picking up papers. He might be founder, owner, and Pulitzer Prize winner, but it was his mess. He wasn't so proud he couldn't clean it up. "Our first show. What with the Joker, and the conspiracy theories surrounding Dent's death and that .38, I thought it was appropriate."

That smile never faltered, but the spirit behind it did.

"You seem…disapproving."

"I thought you were educating people here," she shut Lois Lane's CV, pressing the edges crisply. "Not pandering to politicians."

"Pandering?" Chris asked, surprised. "Who's pandering?"

"Hamilton Hill and Greyson Richards," she explained. "Both Gubernatorial candidates. You're giving them a platform, a stage to make whatever play they want on. I thought the whole point of TV 18 was telling the news, Chris. Not creating it."

"One of those men will run this state someday," he stacked Rita Skeiter, Sara-Jane Smythe and Mikaele Blomkist together. The two Brits were older, but formidable; Blomkist had done incredible anti-corruption work, but her heavily accented spoken English hadn't been passable for public television. It was a shame, Chris thought. Any one of the three would have been excellent. And, he had to admit with some chagrin, any one of them would have vastly overshadowed their younger co-host. "I think their stance on gun control is highly relevant. Especially to Gotham City."

"Their opinions on guaranteed second amendment rights are relevant?" those slanted eyes didn't blink once. "Even after MacDonald v. Chicago?"

He chuckled. "Trisha Tanaka, you saucy little minx. Was that _actual sarcasm_?"

"Their powers as Governor are limited, same as the federal government's. There's nothing they can do, and nothing they should."

"That's your opinion. I want Gotham to decide their own."

"Switzerland and Israel both have more guns per capita than the United States, yet their overall violent crime statistics are drastically different than ours. Britain has severe restrictions on gun ownership and yet their violent crime statistics continue to rise," she shrugged. "It's not a simple issue, and your average viewer won't comprehend that."

"Sounds like you've done your research. School project?"

"Personal," she bit her lip. "After…well, I needed to know."

After what? That hushed up Immigration and Customs Enforcement invasion of her home? According to Murray, her grandfather had been released. Or was it something else entirely? She'd wandered the streets and lived at Sisters of Mercy, same as he had all those years ago. But it'd been different for her, he was sure. Trisha Tanaka was a woman. There was a story there, he could sense it, but he was too polite to press the issue.

"So, what's your opinion?"

"What the facts tell me," she placed more files on his desk.

"And what do they say?"

"The national Uniform Crime Report since 2013 shows no discernable statistical difference in violent crimes since the implementation of automatic weapons restrictions or magazine capacity. And in 2028, the last year with full UCR data, firearms were used in more than sixty-five percent of homicides, forty-three percent of robberies, and more than twenty-seven percent of aggravated assaults."

His knees were beginning to ache from kneeling. But if she could take it in just panty hose, he could, too. "Sounds like guns are a real problem."

"Seventy-six percent of all perpetrators were _male,_" she continued. "And sixty-eight percent were _white_. Statistically speaking, testosterone is a more causal agent. Are you going to regulate being male as well?

He scratched his chin. "So guns aren't the problem? People who use them are?"

"The BJS demonstrated over half of prison populations suffered from mental illness, Chris. And that was in 2006. That's a national statistic, and I don't even want to think about how much higher that is here in Gotham. That study further showed that most inmates with psychiatric disorders were arrested for minor charges. Charges that could have been avoided had they been medicated or in psychiatric care."

"So you're saying it's a societal issue, not personal responsibility."

"You know it is not that simple," she also dropped contractions when she was angry, Chris noted. "You analyzed the obesity epidemic, people choose their lifestyles. Doctors treat individual patients…but public health officials enact _policy changes_, like covering continued exercise and nutritional interventions. And that's what we need here. To fight the problem where it truly lies: poverty, unemployment, health care, mental health resources—especially for _male pediatric and parolee populations_. We've known for years that juvenile offenders who serve time for nonviolent crimes are thirty percent more likely to go on to commit a felony or violent crime than those who are assigned to public service, yet we continue to sentence first time offenders for possession. We need policy change, Chris. A complete paradigm shift based on scientific fact and not sentiment. If we can _prevent _the violence, Chris, we can stop it."

"That's liberal thinking. It won't win the election," he said as they stood, the task complete. "And to be honest, Trisha, as much as I'd love to see those issues addressed I don't think we will. I just want to get people to think—"

"Then tell them the _statistics_. Explain that gun violence in the US is only two to six times greater than in other countries with stringent restrictions, like the UK. That means even with those same restrictions, we can only expect the problem to decrease by those proportions: one half to one sixth. And that's completely discounting the amount of already legally owned and registered guns in the population. What legislation would you propose to round up the existing guns?" She continued passionately. "If you did that, if you tried that, more violence would be created by people—however right wing, red-neck, religious or republican—rightly believing that their constitutional rights had been violated."

"So, what do you propose then, Trisha?" Chris asked. "The violence has to stop somehow. Hire more police?" But that wouldn't work, for the same reasons that access to better mental health care wouldn't: limited resources. Especially in Gotham City. Especially _now._ Harvey Dent had gutted the GCPD of her corrupt officers…and many more had fled after his demise. Good, twenty-year cops saw this city through the Joker's rampage, then hung up their badges for good. He had a family now. He couldn't blame them.

"We're biased, Chris," she told him firmly. "We've lived in Gotham City for most of our lives. Our experience with violence and gun-related violence isn't the national norm…and it's our job to be objective. We can't let personal experience influence our opinion on the rights and lives of others. The government has enough problems, and handles them poorly enough as it is. Yes, run criminal background checks. Psychological evaluations. Have all handguns be ballistically registered with iARMS and INTERPOL before they can enter the country or be sold. Assign inspection officers to ascertain all weapons are stored safely in according to city, state, and federal guidelines the same as we do for fire extinguishers. And yes, Chris, I know it'll cost," she rushed before he could interrupt her. He hadn't thought to try: she was on fire at the moment, and he was enjoying the blaze. "So use firearms like tobacco taxes: fund them with yearly weapons recertification. Higher taxes on small caliber ammunition and handguns—because arguments that people need guns for hunting or food supply can't apply to those specific rounds. I know there should be restrictions. But the second amendment has been interpreted as a right to _personal protection_ separate from militia involvement, Chris. Let the people police themselves."

Let the people police themselves. That struck a cord. "Tell me, Trisha," Chris began slowly. "Is that individuals practicing self-protection, or are you referring to vigilantism?"

"The Bill of Rights guarantees us the freedom of establishing a militia-a group of armed citizens. We live in a world where people use terms like 'gang violence' to describe domestic terrorism. So yes. I believe armed, organized citizens may act as a deterrent…"

She shuddered, unconsciously fingered her breast. "But I also think that any such civilian organizations should be registered, and have to practice within set boundaries as prescribed by law."

_Gotcha_. "So what you're saying is…you're a Batman believer."

Trisha Tanaka blinked, and took a step back. He crossed his arms, and waited. "I was," she finally admitted.

"And what's the difference between the Batman and a bounty-hunter?"

"He killed Dent," she reminded him sadly. He was surprised to find there were tears in her dark eyes.

"On purpose, or on accident?" Chris asked gently. "There hasn't exactly been a trial."

"Nothing." She answered him. "Nothing. And until that night he did my city a world of good. He _saved _me, Chris. He saved us all."

"No," Chris smiled. "There is one thing. One very important difference."

"He did it for free," Trisha choked.

Wordlessly he stepped out of her way, and opened the office door. "Congratulations," he called to her retreating back.

She turned, confused. Passionate, well-informed, expressive and articulate. She might be under-qualified, but a degree didn't confer maturity.

…_Life did_. "Congratulations? Why?"

"You're hired," he slid all those carefully re-arranged CV's ostentatiously into the trash. "Good Morning Gotham. You start tomorrow. Eight am."

* * *

Two days later, there was a rose waiting for her at TV 18.

Huffily, Cameron Shaw insisted on asking how on earth she could possibly know it was intended for her since there was no note, and no sender.

…but it was obvious, really. There was a Joker card impaled on an outlying thorn. Good Morning Gotham's "vivacious little Trisha Tanaka" had received her first fan mail. Beck and Chris could kid and tease about her "Secret Admirer" but only because they didn't understand. Couldn't possibly ever understand. And she wasn't about to try explaining it to them.

The rose wasn't fan mail, it was a _death threat_. And it wouldn't be the last.

But the Joker was behind bars, or at least between padded walls. He'd terrorized this city, terrorized her, but he was gone now. That nightmare of death and explosions was done. True, he might haunt her dreams, but so did Walter Graves, her father's anger, and the shapes of those three self-styled Batmen she never learned the names of. But they were gone now, all gone, and her skin had turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Nothing they did, nothing they said, could hurt her now. Not like Chris Holden could.

He gave her a home and he gave her a job when she had nothing left. Then he gave her a dream. Made her life a fairytale. Her Savior. Her White Knight. Her own personal Prince Charming.

…and she lied to him, every day. _Your fiancé isn't what you think she is,_ Trisha thought. _I know who she's slept with. When. Why. What they gave her in return_. There for a while, she could do it. Look into his eyes, smile, chat in front of cameras, always cheery and upbeat for the viewers. Then Hamilton Hill came on Good Morning Gotham. She didn't like him, slick, oiled, and greasy. Didn't like the way his hand, like Graves' had, lingered too long, too sweaty on hers. Didn't like his shifty eyes or the way he touched the make-up girls. But it wasn't until he spoke, opened his mouth and answered Chris that she got sick.

She'd never seen his face, but she recognized that voice. Beck found her in the bathroom after, sobbing. Then it all came out.

* * *

"Cam?"

"Chris, have you been…crying?"

"Tell me it's not true. P-please tell me it's not true."

* * *

"She was going to wait for me, Alfred. Dent doesn't know. Dent must never know."

Rachel Dawes had been a liar, only he knew. A lonely woman in a lonelier city, waiting for the man she loved to come home to her. Then she'd moved on…and she'd been right to, Alfred Pennyworth admitted. Master Wayne had returned, yes; but not all of him. He'd left his innocence behind in a courtroom in Gotham, and that dark shadow of vengeance now would never leave him.

I hope that day comes, Rachel told him. I hope that day comes…

False hopes and broken promises. He burned the letter. For Bruce. For her. Rachel Dawes deserved to live on, her memory unstained by bitterness or rage. Rachel Dawes had deserved to live…

Let her.

* * *

"How could you do this to me? You could you lie to me, Cam! How could you lie about this?"

"I never lied."

"Yes, you did. Every time. Every single goddamned time you said you loved me!"

"I do! I do love you!"

* * *

Harvey Dent was Gotham's White Knight. Laid to rest in a closed casket funeral. He'd lived a hero, Jim Gordon thought sadly. Had it been too much to ask Gotham to let him die one as well?

Now the Batman was a murderer, and "Honest Jim" was a liar. It was a legacy so sour he could hardly stomach it. But Barb? And the kids?

Jimmy understood. B.B. was too young. And Barb?

* * *

"Then what was that, what the fuck was that—? You fucked them. All of them! Sturgis and Hill…a-an-and _Flass!_ Arnold fucking Flass, for God's sake Cam!"

"I never loved them."

"You _slept _with them!"

"Oh, and you've loved every girl you've ever fucked, Chris? I did it for the _stories!_ _I did it for us!"_

* * *

…Barbara Kean-Gordon understood him all too well. Harvey Dent went after the person he loved most: and he'd chosen his son, not his wife.

And now Jim had chosen Gotham over her. She didn't kick him out, didn't make him sleep on the couch. No, night after night she'd lay there next to him, stiff and silent, immune to all pleas of forgive me, please forgive me…

Her ire he could take. Yearned for. Their family could weather counseling, separation, a summer at her mother's house, even divorce…But this passive-aggressive frigidity left no room for anger or forgiveness. They'd won, he and the Batman, and Gotham was safe. But it was a pyrrhic victory, one so bitter he could still taste bile.

* * *

"You going to leave me, Chris? Fire me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"No. I'm not going to leave you. You left me."

"Oh, grow up, Chris! It's not that simple! You want something, you have to be man enough to get it! I'm the most prolific reporter on your goddamned payroll. Even newspaper sales have gone up since I started. I bring in the most revenue!"

"You think _money_ is what I wanted? From our relationship?"

"Oh, go on, then! Grow some balls and fire me!"

"…No."

"_What?_"

"No. I'm not going to fire you, Cam. Like you said, we all have to make sacrifices. You lived for those stories. You worked So. Very. Hard. And I would just hate to be the one to take that away from you."

"Go fuck yourself, Chris!"

"I'd say the same, Cam…but you already have."

* * *

Natalie Hendricks' apartment was cramped, but home. And in the wake of the Joker's rampage Trisha Tanaka continued to clip articles, adding to that scrap book that was her journal into Gotham's heart. She'd never told anyone, not even Michael, about the night the Clown had saved her. He was a terrorist, yes; an awful, evil man…but still capable of good.

JOKER INCARCERATED AT ARKHAM

DR. QUINZEL CONVINCED OF INSANITY PLEA

He was _human_, she realized, perhaps the only in this city who did. _Human. _

VIGILANTE TURNED VIOLENT

HUNT FOR THE CAPED CRUSADER CONTINUES

….he was, she thought sadly, the perfect antithesis of the Batman. "You were my hero," Trisha told him sadly. For a time, they both had been.

* * *

**AN: Medschool. Family illness. Depression. Being a grown up sucks.**

**Seven months without updating? Man, you guys are going to kill me (if you're even still reading that is). I apologize for the worst editing in a fanfic ever. I'm like Peter Jackson: I simply suck at making short , concise stories. I try and try to edit and cut, but my editor is me and I can always convince her there's a good reason for leaving something in. Next chapter, Odysseus Rises, coming sometime in April (you can trust me. I'm *****almost* a doctor). In the meantime, go check out Irish Luck, AZ Woodbomb, and Lauralot. JHorror hasn't updated in years, but her unfinished stories are still well worth the read.**

**Anyways, Fugitive is still unfinished. What was meant as a small, break-away project took on a life of its own. You don't have to read it to understand Ernestina, but it does shed some light onto Chris Holden's backstory, with a little dash of Rachel Dawes, Officer Eugene Bradley, Sergeant James Gordon, Carmide Falconi and Paltron for spice. A note for any beginning writers out there, if you heartlessly murder characters in the seventh chapter, you can't spend the rest of your career writing flashbacks because you feel guilty for killing them off.**


	41. Odysseus Rises

**Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.**

******Zsasz stalks the streets. Nabokov rules the Narrows. In the weeks after Rachel's death, Alfred and Lucius watch Bruce begin his descent as the Dark Detective. But what do Dr. Fries and Dr. Isley have planned for Gotham? In the aftermath of the Joker, the GCPD find their faith-and spirits-tested in the face of growing violence, Rachel's death, and a husband's brutal murder.**

* * *

**Gotham State University**

**March 2029**

Ling Chan was calling it a night.

It was Friday. Nearly Saturday, and the Program Director for the GSU School of Kinesiology was just now heading home. These long office sessions were terrible for posture and ergonomics, despite the best in modern advances in occupational health. It didn't help she'd forgotten her walking shoes at Max Stanfield's apartment last night, either. These four inch, ostrich-skin Ugg pumps did wonders for her height and her graceless body build (research had shown them to increase perceived femininity by shortened stride length, increased paces per minute, and altered axial skeletal movement) yes; but they were the equivalent of professional hypocrisy to be worn as anything other than a fashion statement.

And at forty-three, Ling couldn't afford to be anything but. There were thousands of intelligent, attractive women on campus, many much younger than she that any potential mate could chose. While the majority of her female (and quite feminist) colleagues would scorn to know she'd undergone breast augmentation, most of them were either Caucasiod or Negroid in build, with ample buttocks and breasts. Her aging figure was slim, but stocky, lacking in waistline and feminine curves. She hadn't done the drastic procedures the media mocked, no; but she'd gone from wearing a brassiere for ornamentation only during intimate moments to a respectable B cup, and she and her partners had found that improvement to be quite satisfactory.

She'd had work done on her face, too, but not the kind a celebrity might chose. She'd already had her hairline, eyebrows, and maxillary areas lasered, and a rhinoplasty had decreased the upturn and width of the base of her nose. She still refused the blepharoplasty and any suggestion of botox. Ling wanted to look more aesthetically pleasing, not younger or _less Chinese. _She was quite content with her cultural heritage and age, and quite proud: Age gave her maturity and wisdom. Truth be told, the hint of greying that framed her now-more-feminine face was nothing more than artistic highlights.

Ling Chan had possessed an old soul since childhood. Even in her twenties she'd preferred the company of older men. The graying and the glasses made her seem more approachable, given her quite intimidating social status. And perhaps—in a few years—she'd actually need a prescription, rather than mere artistic lenses.

She was older. Respected. Tenured. And the reserved parking in the faculty garage wasn't far. She passed Isley on the way out, stopping for brief but polite conversation as her back and metotarsal joints ached in protest.

"You're here late, Dr. Chan."

"And yet here you are, Pamela," she nodded kindly. "And in the wrong department, too." She'd always liked the younger Isley woman, respected her passion if not her means. Ling Chang thought that protest belonged in polite articles and petitions, but Pamela Isley was young, vibrant, and bristling with idealism. She was also reknown for her politics and radicalism. After the Fear Night incident, when she'd been arrested, Ling had been one of the few GSU Board members to fight for her release and return to tenure. Some still considered her a terrorist, and some went out of their way to snub her.

"I was working on a petition."

"They still plan to proceed, then?" Isley's pioneering work in gluco-cryostasis had been promising for medication storage and organ transplantation, then the food industry had gotten wind of the new "Lazarus" stabilizer, and the animal agriculture industry and lobby had stopped at nothing to get their hands on it.

Pamela Isley was a vegan and a member of PETA and Greenpeace. Ling worried she'd destroy her lab and research rather than giving in. She'd even agreed to a compromise, to sell the patent to companies that were third-party certified vegan, organic and sustainable to increase public access to nutritious frozen foods…

But the Board, and the government, were putting enormous pressures—and lawsuits—against her.

"They've always planned to proceed. This pause has always been merely a farce for the media and their PR departments."

"I wish you luck with it, Pamela. I truly do."

The feisty, red-haired woman gave a tired smile. "I know. Wait—are you going out there alone?"

It was raining. Dark. Silent. Even the usual crowd of drunken, boisterous undergraduates had turned in. The garage was less than a block away. She'd resisted the proposal to build an adjoining walkway into the Thomas Wayne Faculty Building. The three-point-two million dollars the proposed "historic" walkway would cost the university could be better put to research and education. Not to mention the proposed construction would take place in her hall. Professor Ling Chan and the Kinesiology Department as a whole could not be expected to work to the sound of jackhammers and table-saws.

"Be careful," Isley warned, then excused herself.

Ling Chan had no fears or worries. GSU had been her home since graduate school in 2012.

Campus students had a volunteer-led safety escort service. Campus police were always available to pick female party-goers up from fraternities, no questions asked or ID required. And the Thomas Wayne Faculty complex had security willing to walk with both male and female staff alike to their vehicles…

But she was older, purposeful, not intoxicated. A poor target for a victim of mugging or sexual assault. GSU was located downtown, and most of those security measures were to protect students against drunk drivers and opportunistic date rape. During her thirteen years of tenure, Ling had only used the safety services for personal protection to get home on Fear Night. She was a foreign national, apolitical, and had nothing for fear from Meroni, and she had positively refused to let that sociopath styling himself 'The Joker' intimidate her.

It was late. It was raining. If she got back to Max's apartment soon enough, they might be able to enjoy themselves before falling asleep…

The media would label it as an act of carelessness and folly, the GCPD would warn people to be aware of their surroundings. Faculty and students alike would praise her steadfast spirit and bravada. And the public? The public would be reminded that the blood of one good man was hardly a talisman of protection. The Joker might be behind bars, but the streets of Gotham City were far from safe.

…Nature, after all, abhors a vacuum.

Professor Ling Chan left the building as she always had done. She had no way of predicting that one of Gotham's most notorious serial killers would be waiting for her in the darkness.

* * *

**AN: Odysseus Rises is up and running as a separate Fic, with weekly updates promised!**

I hope you've all enjoyed this intro. I am experimenting with uploading these longer, non-Paltron centric chapters either as separate entities, or as multiple smaller chapters (Title part 1, Title part 2 etc.) within the scope of Ernestina itself.

This would allow for shorter time between updates, as well as lessen the amount of reading per chapter to a much more manageable sum. I'm hoping to limit all chapters to less than 3,000 words whenever possible.I'm also using one character viewpoint per chapterlet if these non-Paltron fics remain separate.I'm hoping this will allow me to provide you all with high quality yet still timely updates, as well as help me to build a large buffer of publishable chapters for when the creativity fails or schoolwork calls.

I'd love to hear feedback on which—if any—of these strategies you as readers might prefer.


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